


In The Arms of the Ocean

by firesign



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bad Sex, Consensual Infidelity, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Dany gets a little dommy, Dubious Consent, F/M, I Love Jon Snow, Infidelity, Jon gets a little subby, Jonerys, King Jon Snow, M/M, Memories of rape, Mentions of sexual violence, Oops pegging, PTSD Jon Snow, Period Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queen Daenerys, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Sexual Trauma, Traumatized Jon Snow, a bit of bum smacking, elements of BDSM, memories of Jon Snow/Euron Greyjoy, poor Jon - Freeform, road to recovery, slow burn on steroids, that thing you do with your tongue, the pegging that was promised
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2020-07-31 15:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 138,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign/pseuds/firesign
Summary: Daenerys and Jon Snow are virtual strangers on their wedding night, in a marriage arranged for political alliance. Though Daenerys is both a passionate woman and desperate for an heir, Jon Snow has a past she isn't aware of--one in which he suffered horrendous sexual trauma and abuse. When he is barely able to function sexually on their wedding night, Daenerys begins to believe he is repulsed by her. She longs for a love marriage, and a husband who wants her. Jon is broken nearly beyond recognition. Daenerys grows increasingly frustrated as, unknown to her, Jon struggles daily with the after-effects of his trauma.





	1. The Bastard King

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Red Sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5014120) by [half_life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_life/pseuds/half_life). 

> This work is intended for mature audience's only. It deals heavily with themes of PTSD and sexual abuse/assault, please proceed with caution if these are trigger topics for you. 
> 
> This fic was inspired by an incredible story by half_life called Red Sea. In Red Sea, Jon Snow suffers horrible sexual trauma and abuse at the hands of Euron Greyjoy and Ramsay Bolton. In this fanfic of Red Sea, I have imagined that Jon has been rescued from his captors, and has gone on to help Daenerys and her forces defeat the dead and take the Iron Throne, although all without having much one-on-one contact with the Dragon Queen herself. This work features a combination of details and presumptions from both the show and the books. For the sake of this fic, I've had to change a few details from Red Sea--the main one being that, in Red Sea, Jon and Missandei were both captives of Euron's for awhile and knew each other at that time. This work presumes they have not previously met, and that Missandei has been with Dany as in the show. In this fic, Daenerys' contact with Jon during the Great War was minimal. No boat sex, and Jon does not know he is a Targaryen (and most likely never will). Red Sea is a total masterpiece. half_life is far more adept at plotting, and world details, than I am, and this work does not continue the precedent set there (because I frankly do not have the chops). Red Sea also deals beautifully with the magic of this world, which will only be dealt with here tangentially.

He reveals little of himself, this King in the North.  
  
The ceremony for wedding the crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is different from what he’s known. Daenerys has done away with certain customs, one of them being the practice of the groom draping the bride with a cloak to bring her under his protection. Daenerys doesn’t need the protection of a man, not even of a king, not even the King in the North. She had wondered if he might protest, if it might hurt his pride. She is well aware of how fragile the pride of men can be. But when they told this bastard king of the intended change, he had accepted it with dignity, merely nodding. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he had demurred. Daenerys had looked at him across the table, wondering what hidden depths those eyes might hold. He is quiet, this is Jon Snow. He keeps things to himself.  
  
When they had informed him there would further be no bedding ceremony, obvious relief crossed his face. Daenerys had wondered at this as well. In her experience, most men found practices such as the bedding ceremony enjoyable, reveling in their chance to be pawed at and swooned over by numerous women before being sworn to one for the rest of their life. But Jon Snow had been glad to do away with it, it had been clear to see. Another mystery Daenerys would eventually need to unravel, if she was to know this man, and perhaps love him. If he was to rule with her as her consort—not at her side, exactly, but just one step behind. A new sort of arrangement. Fitting for her new world.  
  
She has had little time to get to know her intended over the last few weeks, due to a marriage hastily arranged in the days immediately following the Great War, and her taking of the throne. Jon Snow is a seasoned warrior, respected by his brothers in combat, and so he participates in their strategy meetings, and offers his counsel. But Dany watches him, and sometimes he seems distant. His eyes glaze, go far away, snap back only when someone speaks his name and he notices the silence, the rest of the room waiting. She has seen the way Tyrion looks at him with concern, and has wondered what her Hand knows that she doesn’t, what he’s kept from her about this man. He says he has told her everything he knows, that he has seen a change in Jon Snow since he saw him last, but that he doesn’t know the reason, can’t explain it. For his part, Jon Snow is unfailingly polite, attending to his duties as her consort as if he had been nobly born and bred. Which of course, he nearly was. He stands by her side at functions, offers his arm as they process, ever mindful of the formalities, the protocols. Although in speech he tends toward laconic, offering little, speaking only when prompted, usually. The only subject that seems to interest him is the North—how best to maintain the goodwill of the Northern Lords, what is to be done about the Wildlings who have remained south of the wall. Whenever the topic of discussion turns elsewhere, she feels him drop away. That’s fine. She doesn’t need a witty man, she has Tyrion for that. She doesn’t need a confidant either, not with Missandei by her side. A quiet consort will have its advantages, anyway. Any woman would see that.  
  
Her maidservants have prepared the royal bed chambers lavishly for the wedding night. Fire roars in the hearth, a light in the winter dark of the Keep. Fine silks drape the walls and flutter over the bed. Scattered flower petals decorate the furs, most of them dry but some fresh, from the season’s last late roses.

Daenerys is Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and will not be unceremoniously disrobed by some bastard king of a barbaric north. She bids Jon Snow to wait in the adjoining chamber while Missandei and her maidservants remove her wedding finery and then re-dress her in a silken night robe, pale violet to match her eyes, a long slit in the front reaching down nearly to her navel. They loose her hair and brush it out and see that it shines. They dab sweet almond and rose oil on her brow, between her breasts, and down upon her lower lips. Dribble rosewater onto her thighs and rubbing it in until she is fragrant as a summer’s garden.  
  
Too late, Daenerys considers the inequity of the preparations. Here she herself is being ornamented and arrayed like a feast, while her husband waits in the next room, probably gulping down wine, in the same clothes he’s been wearing all day, no one to brush his hair or sweeten his breath or dab rose oil between his legs. She should have ordered some men to do so, to prepare him as she is being prepared, but it’s too late now. A tradition, she thinks, she will install in the future, for any children she might bear. “He should be the one preparing for me,” she remarks to Missandei. Her friend smiles softly up at her.  
  
“It is not easy for a man to marry a queen who holds a throne, Your Grace,” she says. “In fact, no man has ever done it before.”

The thought softens Dany a bit.  
  
When her maidservants finish, Missandei places her hands gently on Dany’s arms and looks into her eyes. “Is your grace all right?” she asks. “Your new husband is certainly pleasing to the eye, but this is not all that one must consider.”  
  
“I don’t think he will be ungentle,” Daenerys says. “Tyrion says he’s a good man, and already I’ve seen that for myself.” Missandei nods.  
  
“Even so,” she says. “You are the Queen. Any man, even an ungentle one, must do as you wish.”  
  
Dany smiles, grateful for this reminder.  
  
With a final squeeze and a knowing look, Missandei rises and goes to the door to the chambers where Daenerys’ new husband awaits, opens it, and nods to Jon Snow, granting him permission to enter. She stands to the side to let him pass, giving a little bow and greeting him with “Your grace,” before disappearing out the door.  
  
Alone in their bedchambers, Daenerys smiles at her new husband. He is still quite dressed, but has removed the heavy cloak and ornamental armor he wore for the ceremony and feast, the brigandine and gorget. He remains in his gambeson and tight breeches, his boots. Her eyes drift down to his hand, where he holds a goblet of wine that she can see even from across the room is still filled to the brim. She wonders just how many glasses he’s had. Jon Snow notes the direction of her gaze and sets the goblet on a nearby table.  
  
“I’m afraid I’ve lost my taste for it,” he says, and Dany realizes she didn’t see him imbibe throughout the feast.  
  
“Perhaps ale suits you better?” she asks, prepared to call for some, but Jon Snow shakes his head.  
  
“I—I’ve seen how it makes some men dependent,” he says, his eyes darting away briefly and then back to her. Ah, Daenerys thinks. A father who liked his drink too much, perhaps? Who grew cruel on it and beat his wife and children? But no, that doesn’t fit at all with what she’s heard of Lord Eddard Stark. Perhaps he terrorized them in secret? “I shouldn’t like to be the same.”  
  
“I admire your discipline, Jon Snow,” she says warmly. To herself, she thinks that with luck he is not so abstemious in the bedroom. She draws in her breath and looks at him, waiting. He submits to her gaze, patiently enough. But he makes none of the overtures she had expected from her husband on their wedding night.  
  
To fill the silence, she asks, “Did you find the feast tiring?”  
  
“Yes,” he says, and then thinks better. “No—I only meant that I was anxious to—“  
  
“Come to bed?” Dany teases with the lift of a brow just as Jon finishes-  
  
“—leave it.”  
  
Daenerys blinks.  
  
“Forgive me. I’ve never been good with words. Your restoration preoccupies me, as you know. I find it difficult to focus on frivolous matters such as dancing and feasts. That’s all I meant.”  
  
Dany holds back a sigh, the beginning of a tiny wound blooming in her heart. She knows she is beautiful, her face lovely, her body comely and young. She feels her smile flatten on her face, wondering just how much work she is going to have to do, when Jon Snow catches himself. Seeming to remember he has a duty to perform, he steps toward her, starting with a little lurch.  
  
“You are lovely, Your Grace,” he says. “Beautiful.” The words have a perfunctory politeness to them, as if they are lines someone has told him to say. She wonders if he wants _her_ to ravish _him_. Some men enjoy that, she knows. He comes toward her until he is close enough to touch, and then stops, his eyes cast downward. Is he shy? Demuring? It seems unfitting, for a husband and a king.  
  
“I was told you were not a lad, but a man,” Daenerys says before she can think better of it. His eyes snap up to hers.  
  
“Yes, your grace. I have known . . . women . . .” His voice goes distant, along with his gaze. He swallows hard. “I hope that doesn’t displease you.”  
  
“I shouldn’t expect otherwise, of a soldier and a king,” she says. And it’s true. Whatever past he’s had with various women is not of concern to her. What is of concern is that she had expected this man to want to ravish her. Shouldn’t he be giddy, nearly beside himself, with the prize he has won? A beautiful woman, who is also the queen? Her pride is wounded, and it causes her to speak too freely. “After all, I have known the love of other men.” _And women_, she thinks but keeps this to herself. He takes this gracefully, only nods, his solemn eyes meeting hers.  
  
“Aye,” he says. “I am your second husband.” His eyes widen then, realizing what he has suggested. “Of course—that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t have known—other men. Ones who weren’t--”  
  
She watches pink roses bloom on his lovely cheeks. She wants to tease him, ask him if he finds the thought jealous-making, but the room in the air is too tense for that sort of teasing. She doesn’t know what is wrong, or how to reach him. Only knows that the new husband of the queen shouldn’t need nearly so much convincing to bed her. Hurt hardens to anger in her belly.  
  
“Take off your clothes, Jon Snow,” she says. “Your queen wishes to see you.”  
  
Perhaps he will respond to her taking charge, finally, she thinks, but instead she sees something wild flash in his eyes. Something close to fear, or perhaps—could it even be anger? “Yes, your grace,” he says flatly, as if obeying a higher ranking officer’s command. It is the entirely wrong way to answer. He glances at the goblet of wine, then away, his fingers moving to begin to untie the laces of his gambeson.

“Bring the wine to me, if you won’t drink it,” Daenerys says, trying to mask her irritation, though she isn’t much good at it, is far more used to wielding it like a sword, letting it show. In her mind she hears Tyrion telling her to practice diplomacy. She never expected to need it in her own bedroom. Then an image of Viserys enters her mind, unbidden—he is screaming at her that she has woken the dragon, and she is cowering beneath him in fear. Taking a deep breath, she reigns herself in. She must not unleash the dragon on this man. Not tonight.  
  
Jon lifts the glass and offers it to her. She takes it with a small smile and sinks slowly into a chair, letting her legs slip open further than would be propitious anywhere but in the bedroom. She slides her hips forward in the chair, bringing her parting forward, toward him. One shoulder of her pale violet robe slips off her left shoulder, revealing the upper curve of her breast, and she lets it.  
  
Jon doesn’t look at her until he is down to his small clothes, a loose cotton undershirt and long braies that reach to his ankles. Leaving the braies on, he removes the undershirt and then pauses, facing her. Almost as if presenting himself for her inspection. Daenerys can’t help it, her lips part and she draws in a breath. His body is like a sculpture—battle hard, beautiful—that has been hacked away at with a crude axe.

The scars overwhelm her. For a moment, they are all she can see. Daario Naharis had grown up a slave in the fighting pits of Tolos, and even his body wasn’t scarred to such an extent. Nor did Khal Drogo’s many wounds compare to the sight before her. Any amorous feelings Daenerys had managed to nurture as her new husband laid himself bare for her are extinguished when she takes in the horror of what this man has survived. Deep jagged scars mark his belly and chest. Daenerys can’t imagine they came from anything but a sword or a knife. Thinner scars wrap around his sides and Dany can guess they wrap around to his back as well. They are just like the scars she has seen on the backs of the men and women she has freed—scars left by a whip. His inner arm reveals a pink, pearly strip of fragile skin, like a rose petal—but one born of violence. It appears as if someone had cut a strip of flesh away, from his wrist all the way to his elbow, Dany realizes. She breathes in sharply. Jon submits to her gaze, but he draws himself up, raises his chin slightly, perhaps with the barest hint of defiance, as if he expects she will find him unattractive or unworthy, and is already guarding himself against that.  
  
But _oh_, the man is beautiful. The scars mark a body that is rippled tightly with muscle. His shoulders are pleasingly broad, his chest firm, his stomach striated and defined. The muscles at his navel begin to form a hollowed vee that disappears frustratingly into the line of his braies. His hair hangs in loose black curls about his face, his lips full like a woman’s.  
  
“You are beautiful, Jon Snow,” Daenerys proclaims. He accepts this neutrally, his expression unaltered. She wants to know the story behind these scars, but senses that speaking of it will not make him easy. “Will you not come to me, husband?”  
  
“Of course I will,” he says, and moves forward. She is shocked, though perhaps a bit intrigued, by his modesty—he leaves his braies on as he approaches her in her chair, and sinks down to his knees. _Is this the pleasure men take in virgin maids?_, she thinks. There is something becoming about his shyness. Daenerys reaches her hand forward, taking care to move slowly—it makes little sense, but she senses fear in the room, and it isn’t hers—and puts her fingers in his hair.  
  
Jon smiles at her, quite weakly, and then brings his hands up to her knees, placing them over her robe with the greatest care. _Perhaps he thinks me glass, fears I will break_, she thinks. Then she watches Jon breath in and brace himself with something that looks suspiciously like resolve. She watches as his eyes go farther and farther away, until they are nearly black, and she senses that his spirit has dropped down into some forest or cavern where she can’t reach him. Only once he has seemed to have slipped out of his own body does he bring his lips leadenly to her inner thigh.  
  
Daenerys recoils. “I’m sorry that making love to me requires such an effort from you,” she says, her patience finally snapping. His eyes fly up to hers, and then matters get worse. She sees that Jon is trembling. A thin sweat begins to break out across his forehead.

“As queen of the seven realms I am afraid that I cannot relieve you of this duty, not tonight. Let us go to the bed, then, and make this as quick as possible.”  
  
Jon speaks to the stones beneath them. “May I—may I be so bold as to position myself above you, your grace? In this matter only.”  
  
Seven hells. They’ve given her a husband who finds even the least inventive position conceivable to be salacious beyond bearing.  
  
“Of course. That’s the usual way, isn’t it? You may take any position you’d like, if it means getting this done.”  
  
Jon’s face falls. “I’m sorry, your grace. It isn’t that I don’t—“  
  
“I tire of words,” she says sharply. “Unlike you I have had much wine. I wish to see to my duty as queen so that I might rest.” Without waiting to gauge his reaction, she simply turns and walks toward the bed, untying the belt around her waist and letting the pale violet silk flutter softly to the ground. When she reaches the bed she slides onto it—how ridiculous they are, suddenly, all these stupid rose petals—and lies down on her back. Jon is pale as the moon, his eyes wide and dark. He comes toward her, stopping at the end of the bed to shuck off what remains of his small clothes. As he rises, Daenerys sees the possible reason for his modesty. Right there, on the part of a man that she has always found so alluring—the ridge where the muscles of his hips form a vee, pointing downward-- is a livid red X, raised up above his pale skin, like a brand on livestock. She opens her mouth to ask who did this to him—uncertain if she’s angry because she pities him, or angry because someone has laid such a claim to skin that is rightfully hers—but realizes she has no desire to prolong this agony any further with conversation. When she moves her gaze back up his body, his eyes meet hers. She waits. He does nothing.  
  
Daenerys sighs.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he begins to say. “May I—is it all right if I touch you?”  
  
“You do know how children are made, Jon Snow?” she says, her voice ice.  
  
“Of course, your grace.”  
  
“I want a child. Do you understand? I was told you could put one in me—“  
  
Before she can finish, her husband lowers himself onto the bed, hastily. He draws his body forward, so that his length matches hers, but he keeps himself propped up on his hands, his muscles bulging, so as not to touch her. His eyes focus somewhere around the hollow of her neck.  
  
“May I kiss you?” he says hoarsely.  
  
“If you can bear to,” Daenerys says through clenched teeth. Jon Snow exhales in despair, or defeat, and then slowly lowers his head and deigns to place his lips on her throat. The kiss is downright feeble, so gentle are his movements. He moves his full lips slowly, so slowly, from the right side of her throat to her left, still holding himself up on his arms, so that no part of his body touches hers except his lips.  
  
“Where do you like to be kissed?” he whispers.  
  
Despite her rage, a little thrill shivers down Dany’s spine. “The usual places,” she says dryly, softening ever so slightly. “I’m no maid. I assure you, I won’t break.”  
  
Jon bobs his head in acknowledgement and then kisses her neck again, and then the hollow of her throat, and then, moving downward on sinewy muscles, kisses the skin just below her collarbone. A pleasing scent fills her nose and she realizes he must have washed his hair and scented it with something after all—cedar oil, perhaps? Lemons? At last, he places a kiss not on her breasts, but in between them. His eyes flicker up immediately to check her expression.  
  
“Is that all right?”  
  
“Yes,” she says, frustrated. Then, “You can’t hold yourself above me like that all night.”  
  
“I can,” he says earnestly, looking at her. “If you want me to, I will.”  
  
“For pity’s sake,” she says, reaches her arms up around his back, and pulls him down. He allows himself to be pulled—she knows he could fight her if he wished. But his body is obedient and he falls atop her softly, carefully, and suddenly their bellies are pressed together, and their chests . . . and she can feel him on her mound, her upper thighs, this man who is treating her like she is more delicate than a flake of snow.  
  
His member is not hard.  
  
Daenerys is so frustrated she can’t see straight. She knows she is beautiful, yet he is unaroused. Meanwhile, this barbaric Northerner holds himself high above her so as not to touch her flesh, does nothing more than kiss her rather reluctantly, and_she_ is aroused. Her insides ache for more of him. It is senseless. Yet she fears that if she shows her anger, Jon Snow will break. Too fiercely, she thrusts her hips upward into his groin, commanding him to respond. He squeezes his eyes shut. She thrusts again. Then she reaches a hand down in between their bodies, and Jon rises up again, his body doing exactly as it is bidden at every turn, to allow her to wrap her hand around his cock. Carefully, she begins to work it. The color rises in his cheeks, though Daenerys suspects it is not with passion, but with shame. “It’s all right,” she hears herself say, and strokes him with her right hand. Her left she places on his arm, running it slowly up and down the hard muscle there.  
  
To Daenerys’ immense relief, after only a few strokes, her husband’s cock begins to perk to life. She lets her hand play across his chest to the thick muscles there, lets her fingers gently graze his nipple. It peaks up quickly, just like that, like the hard bud of a flower. This confounds her. His body seems responsive—very much so. Yet he still has his eyes shut tightly, as if he is wishing himself somewhere far away.  
  
Dany increases the rhythm of her strokes and works his member, watching him closely for indications that he finds it pleasurable, but receives none. His brow furrows slightly, he gives away nothing more. At last, Jon gives a little shudder and whispers, “I’m close.”  
  
“Come inside me, then,” she says, releasing his cock and placing her hands on his narrow hips to guide him, unable to stop herself from looking at the violent X there. He opens his eyes and looks down, aligning himself properly.  
  
“Are you certain?” he whispers.  
  
He is maddening. “Get me with child, Snow, and you won’t have to do this again for a year,” she says, and he nods—obedience or defeat, she can’t tell, it doesn’t matter—and slides into her, gently. She is soft and slick, ready for him, and his eyes widen to find her so. He was not expecting her body to be so willing, so receptive to him. His lips part like he’s about to speak again, and so she rocks her hips up into him to stop him, and then grabs his face and pulls his mouth toward hers and fills it with her tongue.

He begins to move inside her and she continues kissing him, so that he won’t stop. It takes only moments. Jon shudders with a little spasm, and thrusts into her more slowly, and then pulls his mouth away from hers—dares to pull away, from HER—and raises his head to the ceiling, baring his throat to her, neck muscles straining, and she knows he is spilling his seed. He does it all silently. On his face is not ecstasy, but pain. He thrusts one more time, and then he is finished. His head drops, and he doesn’t meet her eyes as he immediately slides out of her.

For a moment, they pause like that. Her husband holding himself up on his arms, breathless above her, not looking at her, and Dany, waiting stunned below him. _This cannot be real_, she thinks. _What just happened cannot be what happened_.

“I—I want to see to your pleasure,” he whispers with great effort.  
  
“Right now only sleep can bring me pleasure,” Daenerys says. She takes a cloth from the bedside table and wipes between her legs. Jon nods and slides off of her, off of the bed, and stands. He takes a cloth from the table on the opposite side of the bed, and similarly cleans his flaccid member, his hard, pale thighs.  
  
“Are we to share the same bed?” he asks quietly.  
  
“We had better, “ she says. “Or the entire castle will be abuzz. Hand me my robe.”  
  
“Yes, your grace,” Jon says, and quickly obeys, gathering her robe from where she dropped it on the floor. He holds it open for her to slip in to. Daenerys rises from bed and allows him to help her into it, then ties it around her waist and quickly climbs back abed, burrowing beneath the furs. She turns her back to him, rolling onto her side, and closes her eyes, even though she is too angry, and too bothered in between her legs, to sleep. She waits to feel Jon settling into bed beside her, and waits, but there is nothing. After a long while, she dares open her eyes, and sees he is sitting in a chair by the fire, a thick robe of crimson velvet drawn around him, staring into the flames. She shuts her eyes again. She knows not how long he tarries there. She falls asleep before she feels him come.


	2. There's a Ghost in my Lungs and it Sighs in my Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Breakfast at the Keep. Jon and Arya spar. Night falls again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters in this chapter: Dany, Jon, Missandei, Tyrion, Sansa, Arya, Brienne, mentions of Varys, and Jaime Lannister. No Daario here is what I'm saying.

For a blessed moment before Daenerys opens her eyes, she forgets what happened the night before, and so there is peace, just for a breath or two, followed swiftly by the crushing remembrance of her new reality—this strange husband who cannot love her.

The room is warm and the shutters on the glass windows are open, allowing in weak winter light. Her serving girls have been here, stoking the fire and opening the shutters. She turns in bed. There beside her is the unmoving form of Jon Snow, though she doubts he is sleeping. His back is to her, beneath the furs, and he is pressed as far away from her as the bed will possibly allow him before falling out of it, the line of his spine curled protectively around himself. His black curls are loose around his neck, becoming. Peaking out of the covers are his shoulders, covered in a white shirt—he has slept in night clothes. They both have. On their wedding night.  
  
For a moment, Daenerys feels unbearably sad. They are young, and beautiful, and strong. They are powerful, each in their own right. It should not be so difficult. _Had you been hoping for love?_ a voice within asks her with a sneer. It sounds too much like Viserys, and she pushes it away.  
  
She throws back the covers and rises from the bed. Jon turns immediately—awake, as she suspected—achingly attuned to her, for someone who can’t bear to touch her. She turns her back to him and fastens her robe, then goes to the door and tells the guards outside it to send for Missandei. When she looks back to her husband, he is standing behind the bed, watching her with solemn eyes. Those eyes do not lack kindness or concern, and Daenerys can make no sense of it. Does he pity her? He has made himself entirely modest again. A loose white shirt untied about his neck shows only a small bit of blessedly unscarred skin, and long white braies cover him from waist to ankle.  
  
“We will sit for a late breakfast with the council and other dignitaries of the court,” she says. “I would be most appreciative if you would dress in your adjoining chambers. This afternoon I’ll have your trunks moved into it, and whatever else you’d like to make yourself more comfortable.”  
  
“Of course, Your Grace,” he says. “I—“  
  
She hears Missandei enter behind her and cuts him off.  
  
“That will be all, my lord.”  
  
He shuts his mouth and nods.  
  
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Missandei says. “Your Grace.”  
  
“Good morning, Missandei,” Jon says, and Daenerys watches silently, still, as he looks as if there might be something more to say, and then moves into his chamber, and shuts the door.  
  
Daenerys turns to Missandei, who regards her gravely, and says nothing, waiting.  
  
“Something is wrong with him,” Dany says finally.  
  
Missandei’s face remains calm. “Did he try to harm you?

“No—not like that.”

“Was he unable to perform?”  
  
“He performed. Just barely,” she says bitterly.  
  
“Was he unkind, Your Grace?”  
  
Daenerys shakes her head. “He seemed repulsed by me.”  
  
Missandei frowns. “That isn’t possible, Your Grace. Unless—“  
  
Daenerys and Missandei share a look. Dany knows what her handmaiden is thinking. It isn’t unheard of, of course, but it would be a most unfortunate trait to have in a husband. Something Daenerys should have been made aware of.  
  
“I must dress,” she says, her voice grim. “Send for Tyrion.”  
  
“Of course. His lord hand was long into his cups, I’m afraid. He will still be abed.”  
  
“Wake him.”  
  
  
  
* * *

  
  
Daenerys has a way of doing something to the air itself. He doesn’t know how she does it, but his queen can change the energy of an entire room, depending on her own moods. When he enters her private chambers, head thick and pounding, unsteady on his feet, he knows immediately something is wrong. An electricity in the air sends a prickle up the back of his neck, alerting him.  
  
Tyrion has learned to pay close attention to things he didn’t see before. The way his queen dresses, the color she selects, the style of her hair—all these have meaning, he has learned. A woman does not select her clothing at random, especially not a queen. So when he walks into Daenerys’ private chambers—the chambers where his queen should have enjoyed a night of lovemaking with her beautiful Jon Snow—many things are wrong. There is a full flagon of wine on the table; neither she nor the king must have indulged. There are no clothes cast recklessly about the room. In the air is the scent only of the fire—none of the muskier, animal smells that linger in a room after a night of lovemaking. Daenerys is standing at the window, gazing out onto the rooftops of Queen’s Landing, and she is wearing a dress of black scaled leather, with sharp, broad shoulders. He would have hoped to find her in something softer—white furs perhaps, lilac velvet. Her hair is unbraided but Tyrion suspects this is out of a desire to see him with haste, rather than a signal of enjoyed wantonness.  
  
“Your Grace,” he says somberly, announcing his presence.  
  
“You’ve procured me a husband who isn’t whole,” is Daenerys' immediate reply, spoken toward the window.  
  
Tyrion is shocked. “He submitted to an inspection, Your Grace. The maester found him intact.”  
  
“In body perhaps. But not in mind.”  
  
Tyrion blinks, trying to comprehend. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Your Grace—“  
  
“Either he is not sound of mind,” she says, “Or he does not prefer the company of women.”  
  
With these words she turns to him, and her gaze is fire. “Jon Snow?” he says. “But he had a wildling lover. A woman. Forgive my impropriety, but—“  
  
“This is no time for propriety,” Daenerys says. “Last night you wedded me and sent me to bed with a husband who doesn’t want to touch me.”  
  
Tyrion swallows. He is too queasy by far to brave the question he must ask, yet he must ask it.“Did he, though?”  
  
“Only at great persuasion,” Daenerys bites.  
  
So the marriage is consummated. Yet the Dragon Queen is furious. Tyrion glances at the wine, wishing that the hour were not quite so inappropriate for him to pour himself a steadying glass, take the edge off his headache. “Your marriage to Jon Snow was arranged for political purposes,” he says slowly, trying to get his feet beneath him. “Having him as your husband will forever help you maintain the North. A love match would be ideal, but it is not necessary.”  
  
“And this wilding lover,” Daenerys says. “How are we to know she existed? Did anyone see her?”  
  
“Of course-“  
  
“Anyone besides Jon Snow?”  
  
Tyrion doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.  
  
“You would not be the first monarch to take a lover,” Tyrion says. “Not even the first to keep one at court—“  
  
“I want a child,” Daenery says, and her voice is wrathful as a blast of dragon fire. “A _legitimate_ child.”  
  
“I know,” Tyrion says gravely. “But with all due respect, we don’t even know if that’s possible. Again, forgive my inelegance, but you have had a lover since Khal Drogo. A relationship that did not result in a pregnancy.”  
  
“Because I saw that it did not,” she says.  
  
Tyrion nods. “I see. Then it is important that Snow get one on you.” Tyrion holds back a little sigh. It is a challenging sentence to speak to one’s queen.  
  
“You will speak to him. Find out what is wrong with him. Today.”  
  
Tyrion considers this—the act of going to a man, the morning after his wedding, when he has bedded the Dragon Queen for the first time, and suggesting to him, however delicately, that his performance was inadequate. That would not be good for any man’s pride. Nor, Tyrion would hazard, for his future performances.  
  
“I will do whatever you wish,” Tyrion says carefully. “But Your Grace, if you would consider one piece of advice from your Hand. It seems to me that the problem your new husband is having is a matter of confidence. Don’t ask me why, it does seem unusual for a crowned king, seasoned warrior, and a man as alluring as Jon Snow to have doubts about himself in amorous matters. Still, it appears that confidence is the issue nonetheless, and if I’m right, sending your Hand to correct him the morning after the wedding will hardly help. And you, My Queen, are a stunning woman. You must know by now I don’t seek to flatter you. No man could possibly resist your considerable charms for long.”  
  
He watches Daenerys. Her arms are crossed, hands rubbing opposite arms, a reassurance he has rarely seen her give herself. He knows a certain charge leaves the air because the tightness releases from his belly. He will not meet his end at his Queen’s hand, not today. She turns to him.  
  
“Very well,” she says. “We shall give matters time to improve.”  
  
Tyrion bows his head. “Very wise, Your Grace. Say now, I know it is morning, but it sounds as if your night was rougher even than mine. May we drink together and toast to better days?”  
  
Daenerys' smile is wan, but indulgent. “Have your drink, Lord Hand,” she says. “And a belly of food. Get your head about you. Your queen is wedded and bedded. Now she has seven kingdoms to rule.”

  
  
* * *

  
Jon doesn’t speak a word as they break their fast. He is sullen, but he is always sullen, Daenerys doesn’t suppose anyone will notice. He sits to her right, Tyrion to her left, and down the length of the table are Sansa, her sworn knight, Ser Brienne, and Arya to Jon’s side; Tyrion, and Missandei to Dany’s. Jaime Lannister sits at a different table, away from them. Daenerys saw no need to allow the former lover of the false queen she overthrew a more honored position at court; however, both Tyrion and Ser Brienne vouch for his faithfulness to the Targaryen-Stark alliance, and so she will tolerate him. She finds herself missing Ser Jorah with an ache. His calming presence. His unwavering devotion.  
  
Dany, for her part, puts on a smile, responds to all the conversation Jon does not. For all his silence, he is attuned to her, attentive, nearly too much so. Every time she shifts or sighs he sends a glance her way. Finally Tyrion attempts to draw him out. “Jon Snow,” he says. “Or—forgive me—shall we be calling you Jon Targaryen? Of course it is usually the woman who takes the man’s name, but you have married the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and we can hardly call her Daenerys Snow.” His voice is jocular, the teasing meant to be good natured.  
  
“It doesn’t matter what you call me,” Jon says. “I don’t care.”  
  
“Wouldn’t Jon Stark be more appropriate?” Lady Sansa says in that sharp way of hers. “Of course, he should have been legitimised before the marriage, but I would wager it isn’t too late.”  
  
“He’s a Targaryen now,” Daenerys says. “He is legitimised through his marriage to me. But call him Snow, if that’s what you’d like, my lord. He’s accustomed to it and he isn’t ashamed of it. Nor has he reason to be.” Dany feels Jon’s eyes on her, but doesn’t return the look.  
  
“Excellent,” Tyrion says. “I too am accustomed to it and shan’t like to learn a new habit. Speaking of habits, you shall have many to develop, now that you are king,” he says to Jon.

Sansa is watching Tyrion closely. Trying to decide what he’s on about, Daenerys guesses.

“My only habits shall be to serve her Grace, as best I can,” he says. “And to do my duty to the people of Westeros.”

“Oh yes of course, all that,” Tyrion says. “But there are also pleasures to be found, for a king. My sister, for instance, dearly loved homicide. Her late husband before her had a penchant for hunting and tourneys, among other less seemly matters. Everyone who can must find some way to enjoy themselves, Your Grace, even monarchs. What sort of thing might you enjoy?”

Daenerys turns to Jon, curious to hear his answer. He glances at her. “I don’t enjoy frivolity. I’ve never had time for it.”

“What did you do at the wall, when you had spare time?”

Arya’s eyes are hard on Tyrion. Daenerys wishes she understood why. She senses something is afoot, something unsaid floating on the air between them all, but she doesn’t know what it might be.

“I enjoyed training the young people who were new to the sword, my lord Hand,” he says. “Sparring, with the boys. And would have with the girls as well, of course, if there had been any,” he says, looking at Arya. A fond smile crosses his face—gentle, wistful, but real. Jon adores his sisters. That has always been clear.

“Perhaps you might help train the young warriors of court, when time allows,” Daenerys says. Arya and Sansa turn those piercing gazes on her. She meets them. “I’m sure that His Grace will be short for company, once you return to Winterfell. I should like to see him enjoy himself, where he may.”

“He enjoys the pleasures of the North,” Sansa says coolly. “He enjoys Winterfell.”

“Sansa,” Jon says quietly. “Please. Enough about my habits. Tell us of the North. I’ve heard there are wildlings who have decided to settle in the Gift.”

The conversation moves on. Daenerys drinks her tea and lets it continue without her.

She allows Jon distance from her for the rest of the day, trying to gift him with that--some space, room for company he prefers to her own. She loses track of him, moving about her day, until that afternoon, when she comes across him on the balcony overlooking the pitch. He doesn't see her, and she observes him as he observes Arya sparring with Ser Brienne in the yard. An ease sits in his body that Daenerys has rarely seen, and a soft smile actually holds on his face as he watches the giant warrior woman fight his little pup of a sister. Arya flits around Brienne as if she were made of wings, the Knight's greater size and strength seem to put her at no disadvantage. Then something shifts--Daenerys knows too little of battle technique to say what--and Ser Brienne lays Arya out flat on her back with a hard hit to her chest. Daenerys watches Jon's reaction to this. He isn't alarmed. His smile doesn't dim, and then Arya has popped back onto her feet and the two are at it again.

Then Jon moves, goes down the steps to the pitch and draws a practice sword from the racks. "Would you mind if I had a go, Ser Brienne?" he says.

Ser Brienne drops her sword to her side immediately, folding her hands at her back. "Of course, Your Grace," she says. 

Arya lifts a brow at her brother. "I'm using Needle," she says.

Jon looks down at the dulled practice sword in his hand. "I'm not going to spar with Longclaw," he says. 

"Did you fight the White Walkers with it?" she challenges. 

Jon huffs out a breath of a laugh. Her meaning is understood. Jon fought White Walkers with his sword. Arya fought them with her dagger. And in the end, Arya was the one who saved them all.

"I did manage to kill some of them with Longclaw, you know," Jon says good-naturedly. "I can't spar you with it. Sansa would have my head, if I injured her best fighter."

Arya shrugs, flourishes Needle, and crouches, ready.

Jon takes the attack. Daenerys saw little of him in battle, but has heard tell of his bravery, his ability with a sword. She sees evidence of it here. He has fluidity and grace to match Arya's, strength like Brienne's, so that his style is something like a combination of the two. Arya, however, moves like water and keeps him attacking, parrying every blow, until she manages to spin and kick at his feet, just so. Jon stumbles back, and before he can get his feet beneath him, Arya kicks again. Jon goes down, rolls, and is back up immediately. The intensity of their match heightens. The blows are faster now, and hard, Daenerys' eyes can hardly keep up. They are both spinning, striking, and an energy comes over the two of them, so that Daenerys thinks they are moving with pure instinct, the world around them dropping away. Then Arya flies around to Jon's side and Jon's elbow goes to her face, and his foot strikes out sideways at her middle. Arya flies backward through the air and lands with a solid thud.

Jon immediately drops the sword to his side and goes toward her, worried. "Arya?" he says, and Daenerys can hear the concern in his voice, the regret. Arya lies unmoving on the ground. Then, when Jon is near, she somehow jumps up from her back, rolls, and is behind him before he can spin. A kick to the back of his knees takes him down, and then Arya is holding Needle to her brother's throat as he kneels on the ground before her.

Jon chuckles. "I won't fall for that again," he says.

"See that you don't," Arya says, and then she leans down and whispers something in his ear that Daenerys can't hear. Jon reaches up, grabs her, and pulls her up and over his shoulder, slamming her onto the ground. Both of them are laughing, and then Arya's eyes land on Daenerys, and her laughter chills. "Your Grace," she says.

Jon is on his feet immediately, turning to face Daenerys. She is afraid he is about to apologize, or bow, or make some other comment that will make it appear to Arya as if Daenerys rules over him, has him pressed beneath her thumb. So she speaks first.

"Forgive me for not making my presence known," she says with a smile. "It is beautiful to watch you all spar and I didn't want to disturb you at it."

Jon doesn't seem to know what to say, and Arya doesn't seem inclined to say anything, so it is Ser Brienne who breaks the silence. "You have married into a family of great strength, Your Grace," she says. "A fitting match, for a Dragon."

"That I have, Ser Brienne," Daenerys says.

"Do you have need of me, Your Grace?" Jon says.

"No," Daenerys answers. "Not now. I'll disturb you no further." With an attempt at a smile that she fears ends up looking rather forced, she leaves Jon with his sister.

  
  
That night, after dinner, Jon comes to her in her chambers. He has changed into his night clothes in his own quarters, as she has asked. Chaste garments that cover him from wrist to ankle. Daenerys is slow with wine when he comes. She has been dreading this moment all day. Wordlessly, she disrobes and lays down on the bed. Jon approaches and she watches as he makes himself naked. She is surprised to see that he is not entirely soft. He must have readied himself in the other room.  
  
“May I touch you?” Jon asks softly.  
  
“It will be difficult to get me with child if you don’t.” Daenerys silently scolds herself. She has told herself not to be harsh with him. Perhaps a little encouragement would serve, vulnerable as it may make her. “I should like to be touched,” she says softly, lowering her voice. “I should like to be touched _by you_.”  
  
She watches his face. Watches the words land. Watches them take the opposite of her desired effect. Something tightens in his jaw. His throat bobs. Jon nods shortly, and lowers himself slowly onto the bed, as if forcing himself to obey an unwanted command. He keeps his body propped above hers, as he had the night before. Daenerys finds herself recoiling internally, like a dragon drawing back its head, preparing to strike. She has shown him her desire, allowed him to see it, and he has rebuffed her. Again, he seems barely able to tolerate his disgust for her.

She draws in a shaky breath, and closes her own eyes. _A child_, she thinks. _It will be worth it for a child_. As she had the night before, Dany takes his member in her hand. She strokes him until he is fully erect—it doesn’t take long—and then says, “Enter me,” using her commanding voice, wanting no further questions from him about her certainty. Jon nods, and obeys. He slides into her carefully. Then he begins to move within her, not thrusting, as she is accustomed to men doing, but making slow circles with his hips. His head is thrown back, exposing his pale neck to her, his eyes are shut. Jon moves within her, slowly, cautiously, until he spends. He pulls out of her immediately. Dany reaches for a cloth from the table.  
  
But Jon says, “Let me,” pushing up onto his knees. From a pail by the fire he produces a cloth, wrings the water out of it, and presses it to Dany’s inner thighs. He moves it softly, gently, wiping her clean of the minimal fluids from their docile lovemaking. Daenerys watches, bewildered, as he performs this task with tender care. He lifts one leg to wipe the under curve of her buttocks, then the other. Then he moves his eyes to her and watches her face closely as he moves the cloth slowly from the mound of her pubis down, running the hot, wet linen over and into her openings with a delicacy that seems, for a moment, like devotion. Daenerys’ eyes flutter, so pleasing is the sensation. Her lips part, but she holds in the little gasp. To give him such a noise feels too vulnerable, now.  
  
It is over in a moment. Jon is thorough, and sensitive, but does not linger. “I would like to bring you pleasure, my queen,” he says quietly, but when Daenerys looks, she sees he has said it with his eyes closed.  
  
“That won’t be necessary,” she says, her voice going hard again.  
  
Jon nods. “Shall I remove myself then, Your Grace?”  
  
“You do know the fire doesn’t stay lit throughout the night by some enchantment? If the maids see you gone from me there will be more gossip than I can bear. You will sleep beside me, Snow. This night and every night, until I tell you otherwise.”  
  
“Of course, Your Grace,” Jon says.  
  
No one speaks again that night.  



	3. The Beast You've Made of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jon begin the work of ruling Westeros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does not contain Daario Naharis.
> 
> CW: There is mention of the rape of a 12-year-old girl, and an interaction with a child who has been forced into prostitution. Neither of these are described graphically, but please do proceed accordingly.

  
On the third night, Jon comes to bed with wine on his lips.  
  
_This is not good_, thinks Daenerys. _Wine only makes men take longer_.  
  
“I thought you had decided to abstain,” she says. Attempting to appear merely interested and not critical.  
  
“I will, if you’d prefer.”

He behaves like a captive. If only he would show some spirit, something other than this sense of resigned endurance.

“If you believe it might help matters,” she says delicately. “I’d like you to do whatever you wish. Or if there’s something I can do to help matters—“

He is ready to protest, she can see, but she pushes on.

“Every man has his own tastes,” she says. “I believe you will find nothing can surprise me. If there was something you should like?”

“You are perfect, Your Grace,” he says. “I’m sorry I’m not showing you that.”

She searches his face. _Perfect._ “Is that it—do you find me too perfect, do you wish not to soil me, perhaps? Are you concerned about my modesty? Because I assure you, my lord, you need not be.”

Jon continues shaking his head. He glances at the flagon of wine on the table. Dany takes a goblet and pours him a glass. She hands it to him and he accepts it, but he only stares at it. Doesn’t drink.

“I find that war has affected me poorly,” he says at last. “It’s still difficult to think about anything else. I should be of stronger mind. You’re beautiful, Your Grace. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Would it help if I—“

Daenerys steps toward him. Jon flinches back, tensing. He regrets it, instantly, she call tell. But it’s too late, and the damage is done.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It isn’t you.”

“Then what is it?”

His eyes go far away before he answers, his voice thin, “War.”

She tries to accept this. Finds it difficult. Every man she’s known who wasn’t an Unsullied has sought comfort in fucking after war, without fail. War arouses the blood, it doesn’t bequiet it. She knows this herself. There were nights after riding Drogon into battle that she returned with her blood pounding over her entire body, including her loins. How she had longed for a lover, then. As she longs for one now.

“And the scars on you body?”

“All soldiers have scars,” he says quietly. Looking into his glass.

She doesn’t want to push him too much, she senses that he will harden under more questions, rather than soften. “Drink your wine, then, husband. Do whatever you need. So long as it doesn’t interfere with your abilities to perform the duties your role requires.”  
  
Jon nods. “Yes, Your Grace. It won’t.”  
  
They go through the same series of motions they’ve performed the two nights prior. Daenerys moves slowly so as not to startle him again, lowers herself onto the bed. Jon climbs atop her and this time, Dany doesn’t even hope they might kiss. She runs her hand down his chest and then takes his member, begins to stroke it. When he is ready, Jon ruts into her. She watches him. His eyes remain open and unfocused, glassy, his gaze a million miles away, directed at some point to the left of her shoulder. He spends into her and withdraws. This time after his peak he shifts his eyes to her and keeps them open as he says, “Please, Your Grace. May I see to your pleasure?”  
  
And oh, does Dany want to say yes. The man is so beautiful, it makes her dizzy sometimes. His muscles are still honed with battle, the lines of him like a poem or a song. His lips are full and Dany can imagine the way they’d feel on her breasts, her hips, her thighs. The way he speaks these words each night with his mouth close to her opening makes her wonder if he’d put them somewhere other than her thighs.  
  
But it feels wrong. Her husband is doing a passing semblance of willingness, but it isn’t true willingness. She knows that too well. And if she is to enjoy herself openly with a man, she wants more than willingness. She wants hunger, passion. Having him pleasure her here, like this, feels dangerously close to something else.  
  
“You’ve done your duty,” she says, attempting to sound diplomatic. “I am grateful. That’s enough, for tonight. Surely your seed will take root before long, and then . . . “ she trails off. And then they can rest from this business, for awhile.  
  
Jon keeps his eyes on hers for a moment, and she wonders what is going through his mind. She could ask, but she’s afraid of what she might hear. His revulsion for her she feels anew each night. Now his eyes are dark, his black curls glinting red in the light of the fire. She shifts beneath him, and he looks away. He reaches, again, for a basin of water being kept warm by the hearth, wrings out a cloth, and comes back to her on the bed. His eyes go to her face, always monitoring, always checking in, and then he sits on the bed and touches the cloth to her thighs. He begins to smooth it over her.

The cloth is warm, and soft, and the sensation of it running along the insides of her thighs, her bottom, her mound, is lovely. That such a small act could cause her such arousal, Dany never knew. She doesn’t think he torments her on purpose, and yet it is a torment. The ache grows and grows between her legs, but she allows it. She is hungry for touch. Too soon, he pulls the cloth away, and then uses it to clean himself, running it over his own skin with careless efficiency. He drops it back into the basin for a maid to take away before pulling his night clothes back on. As he comes into bed, he says, “Good night, Your Grace.”  
  
Dany thinks about that basin. How he must have noticed her cleaning herself with a dry cloth the first night. How he then must have asked a maid to prepare a pail of hot water with soft cloth inside it—or may even have prepared it himself, somehow. The forethought and preparation that went into this small act he performs for her.  
  
“Good night, Jon.”  
  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
“Tyrion says he likes women,” Daenerys says. Morning light slants through shutters. They are alone in her bedroom with bread and tea and preserved fruit, a rare respite from state affairs. The Stark sisters are to leave for Winterfell today, Jon is taking a private breakfast with them in Sansa’s chambers. He invited Daenerys, of course, even managed to sound sincere. Dany felt it was kinder to decline. She has lingered in a scented bath, and now she sits before a mirror while Missandei braids her hair, the two of them eating and talking together. “What kind of man likes women but doesn’t want to bed them?”  
  
“I have heard of such a thing, Your Grace. There are kinds of violence that can change some men. Perhaps His Grace has been subjected to such violence."

"That’s what he said. ‘War’,” Dany sighs. “Every man I know has been subjected to violence. And most of them comfort themselves in the brothels with alarming frequency. Every night, he asks to pleasure me. How can a man be so loathe to make love to me, yet so eager to pleasure me? It makes no sense. None at all.”  
  
“I agree it is a riddle, Your Grace. The King appears to be a good man. And yet, there is a sadness there."

Daenerys sips her tea. "A sadness that he is married to me, you mean."

"No, Daenerys," Missandei says. Her friend rarely allows herself to address Dany so informally, so that when she does, Daenerys knows to listen. "This sadness has been on him as long as I have known him. You did not begin it. It was easy for him to set aside, when there were dead men to be fought. But now the dead are gone, and your husband can no longer hide himself in battle and plans. And so the sadness shows, all the more."

"He has suffered much," Daenerys says. "As well all did, in the Great Wars."

Missandei says nothing, finishing Dany’s braid, tying it off. Daenerys sighs. She knows this was not a generous observation to make. "Do you know anything of how I might ease the sadness of a man who freezes under my touch?"

Missandei is quiet for a time. "On the Island of Naath," she says, "we had a saying: Sadness is but a wall between two gardens."

Dany turns in her chair to face her friend. “And Jon and I are the gardens with the wall between us?” She raises an eyebrow.

“I believe the lesson is that sadness is something that must be passed through,” says Missandei. “On the way from one beautiful thing to the next. And that it ends, given soil and sunlight. And time.”

Dany takes a slice of the thick brown bread, spoons orange preserves onto it. She hands it to Missandei, then prepares a slice for herself. “For so many years,” she says. “All I cared about was taking the throne. It was the only thing that mattered. A star to move toward in the night. And it kept me going. It drew people to me. All kinds of people, but many people who loved me. Now that I have the throne, it seems like so many of those people are gone. Being the Queen—it’s what I always wanted. What I knew was mine. And yet I didn’t know that reaching it would feel so lonely.”

“A common sentiment among kings and queens, Your Grace,”

“I’m so grateful for you,” Dany says, reaching out and taking Missandei’s hand, squeezing it.

“I know,” Missandei said. “As I am grateful for you. But I know you also hoped for the companionship of your husband.”

“Who else could understand the position I’m in better than he?” she says. “The challenges, the demands of wearing the crown?”

Missandei pours them each a fresh cup of hot tea, fragrant and strong. “And what does Lord Tyrion say, Your Grace?”

“He believes it is a matter of confidence. That Jon has too little of it.” Dany takes the tea cup and cradles it in her hands, a small comfort on a winter morn.

Missandei is quiet for a moment. “When I first knew Grey Worm,” she says, “He had similar feelings. Because of what was done to him, he was afraid that I might find him unappealing. That I would be unable to accept him.”

“And how did you convince him otherwise?”

“Grey Worm is a different man than Jon Snow,” she cautions. “But I reassured him that I wanted to see him. All of him. I made sure not to balk or make him feel ashamed.”

Daenerys frowns. Has she made Jon feel ashamed? Of his scars, perhaps?

“But I told him how beautiful he is,” she says. “And I meant it. I told him I wanted him to touch me. I assured him that whatever his tastes are, they wouldn’t shock me. Nothing can shock me now,” she says, at Missandei’s quirked eyebrow. “I tried to do as you did with Grey Worm. He just doesn’t want me. Perhaps he resents the marriage. Perhaps he would rather be alone, in the North.”

“But in other matters, His Grace is always patient, and kind. And he looks at you with a certain warmth, Your Grace. I do not think it would be so if he were resentful.”

“Warmth?” Daenerys says. “Truly?”

“Yes,” Missandei says firmly. “I watch him. It is there.”

She would not think it possible, and yet she trusts Missandei completely. Dany sips her tea and leans back in her chair, considering.

In the late morning, they gather in the courtyard to bid goodbye to Arya and Sansa, Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime. Daenerys knows Arya and Jon spent time sparring in the pitch early this morning, but she avoided the area, trying to give them their privacy.

Sansa will be the Warden of the North, ruling as Jon’s regent in his absence. As Jon is now King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa shall be doing the day-to-day work of a ruler in their land. “I shall try to make you proud,” she says to Jon.

“The North is in good hands with Ned Stark’s daughter,” Jon says, smiling. “I’m sure you’ll do a better job than I.”

Sansa looks pained. She gives a thin smile, and then throws her arms about Jon’s neck. Her older brother holds her so tightly that Sansa’s feet lift off the ground, despite her greater height.

He sets her down, turns to Arya. With one hand, he cups her cheek. “I’ll get rusty at swordplay, without you here,” he says. “You’ll have to come back soon and get me into shape.”

Arya doesn’t smile. She glances at Daenerys, looks back to Jon.

“I remember when I gave you that,” he indicates Needle. “Never imagined all the uses you’d find for it.”

“Remember what I told you,” Arya says.

Jon nods. Then he grabs Arya up in a hug as fierce as the one he gave Sansa. Dany watches the way her husband closes his eyes as he embraces her, the look of pleasure on his face.

She looks away.

The Stark sisters turn to Daenerys. Sansa curtsies. Arya bows. “Your Grace,” says Sansa. “Thank you for your hospitality. I wish you and my brother many happy years, and fruitful ones,” she says, glancing at Jon.

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys says. For the first time, she thinks about how Jon Snow is in a position usually reserved for women. It is his duty to ensure the monarch produces an heir and secure the line of inheritance. With Sansa ruling the North in all but name, he has few duties beside this one. Do his sisters worry that if it doesn’t happen soon enough, she will put him aside? “Perhaps an heir is already on the way,” she says, and Jon smiles his sad smile. “But if not, we are both young yet. And aside from that, I am grateful for your brother’s wise counsel, and the loyalty of the North. The Targaryen-Stark alliance will remain strong, and ensure peace in Westeros.”

Sansa inclines her head gravely. “I hope so, Your Grace.”

These Starks are maddening. Do they think she doesn’t see the looks they share between each other, do they think she doesn’t sense the deeper meaning in their short sentences? She believes Jon is loyal to her, entirely, and yet there are moments around his sisters where she feels unsure.

“Goodbye Lady Sansa. Lady Arya,” Tyrion says. “With luck, we shall be writing you soon of an expected arrival.” Daenerys puts a kind smile on her face, bids them goodbye, wishing them a safe journey. She stands next to Jon while Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime each go down on one knee before her, and she gives her blessing. There is a Glover to bid goodbye to, a Manderly, an Umber. And then at last the Northern retinue has departed. Jon and Daenerys are alone.

He offers his arm as they return into the Keep, and Dany takes it. “You shall miss your sisters,” she says. “I hope their absence will not be too hard on you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Jon says. “Aye, I’ll miss them. But the Starks belong in the North. They’ll be happier, there.”

Daenerys makes her face expressionless. “But are you not also a Stark, my lord?”

He looks to her. “I’m a Targaryen now,” he said. “Your house is my house. I am yours, my Queen.”

These words warm her. She smiles at him.

“Your sisters are certainly two of the most capable people I’ve ever met. With them in the North, Mina Tyrell in Highgarden, and Asha Greyjoy in the Iron Islands, I believe our rule shall be strong, and prosperous.”

At this, Jon merely nods. A misstep, she sees.

“I enjoyed seeing you and Arya spar together,” she says, trying a different tack. “I take it you learned the sword from Winterfell’s master at arms?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Jon nods.

“And your sister? Did Winterfell train all its girls at the sword?”

A small smile. “No, Your Grace. Arya was always getting into trouble, sneaking off with a sword or a bow. Father found a teacher for her when she first came to King’s Landing, she said. But that ended of course, after Lord Stark was killed. She’s a bit quiet about where she trained, after that.”

“But you gave her her first sword?”

“The day I left for the Wall,” he says. “Arya was different. I understood her.”

Dany wonders if it would be possible to make an ally out of Arya, to help her understand Jon. Immediately she decides it wouldn’t.

“Do you like to ride? Horses, I mean. Perhaps you and I might ride together, beyond the city walls. I should like to see more of the countryside.”

Jon nods. “Of course, Your Grace.”

It’s something. “What does the day hold for me, Lord Hand?” she says, turning back to Tyrion. “Have we time for a ride?”

“Petitioners in the morning, I’m afraid,” he says. “A council meeting in the afternoon. We are expecting an emissary from the Iron Bank within a fortnight, there is much to discuss.”

Daenerys stifles a small sigh. “Very well,” she says. “Another day, then.”

* * *

The days begin to pass. Some days, Daenerys and Jon ride out to the places where workers are rebuilding the walls of the city, and buildings that were damaged in the Last War. Jon unseats his horse and speaks to the workers, asks the men how the task is going. Makes certain they are being paid the wages Daenerys set for them. He is good at this. For her part, Daenerys sits on her white mare, smiling down upon them, playing the role of Queen. Grey Worm at her side, ever watchful. Children bring her flowers, and she leans down to accept them, asking each child’s name. She squeezes hands that are offered up to her.

Jon does spar, sometimes, with the young ones at court. He welcomes girls and boys to participate, both, and perhaps because the have a Queen, many of the Lords and Ladies at court allow their daughters to learn. Tyrion mentions a celebratory tourney, but to Daenerys, it seems a frivolous and brutal waste of time. A party where men risk life and limb, all to entertain the wealthy? She charges him to think of another method of entertainment.

Time fills itself well enough without diversions. Ruling a country as large as Westeros is complicated, and neither Cersei nor Robert before her did much governing in their rules, so there is much to catch up on. Most of it tedious and frustrating. For relief, in the evenings, between dinner and Jon, Daenerys rides Drogon. Sometimes out over the ocean, sometimes over the rooftops of Queen’s Landing and out to the country. Children run through the streets and wave up at her, as she passes over.

Every night, her husband comes to her, trying to cover his air of resolve. There is no improvement there. Daenerys endures it, promising herself that the child will be worth it.

He continues to ask to pleasure her. She continues to decline.

One day they ride through Flea Bottom, at Dany’s insistence. The conditions there are appalling. Human waste runs through the gutters, children splashing around it and through it. Women stand on every corner with their breasts hanging in full view, and some of them look disturbingly young. Daenerys bids Tyrion to give his purse to a girl who looks like she has not even flowered.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion says quietly. “It is not wise, to flash coin in Flea Bottom. They rioted once, when I was here. Lady Sansa and I barely escaped with our lives.”

“Then give me your purse, and I shall do it, if you’re afraid,” Daenerys says. She has not brought her own coin, or she would give this girl all of it.

“I—Your Grace!” Tyrion says, and Dany thinks he is daring to argue with her again, but then she sees he is looking beyond her shoulder. She turns to see Jon has dismounted his horse, and is approaching the girl slowly.

“It’s all right,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Are you a Lord? Cost more for lords,” the child says. She has fair hair and wide brown eyes, and she looks like she should still be playing with dolls.

“That’s not what we’re here for,” Jon says, and crouches down to speak with her. “Do you know where your parents are? Your mother and father?”

“Haven’t got a mother. Nor a father neither.”

“Where do you sleep at night, child?” Dany asks.

The girl points across the street. To a brothel.

“Any coin you give this girl will only end up in the hands of the brothel owner,” Tyrion says, his voice low, for her only.

“Do you know how old you are?” Jon says softly. The child shakes her head.

“There’s no one who knows. Me mother was a whore. She died when I was a babe and they all lost track.”

“Have you bled yet?” Daenerys asks. “Your woman’s blood. Have you flowered?”

The girl shakes her head. Jon looks at Dany, sadness twisting his face, making dark pools of his eyes.

“Torgo Nudho,” Dany says. “Go and explain to the owner of this establishment that we will be taking this girl back to the Keep with us. Tell him that if he ever tries to sell a child again, the Queen will see him burned alive.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Grey Worm says.

“Your Grace,” says Tyrion. “I admire your compassionate heart, but we cannot bring every child of Flea Bottom back to the Keep with us.”

“I’m not bringing all of them. I’m just bringing this one. You shall make a plan for all the others.”

Jon speaks softly to the girl, then lifts her onto his horse, places her in the saddle before him. He rides with her there all the way back to the Keep. When they arrive, he takes her personally to the maids, tells them to see the child bathed, fed, and dressed. They will have to find some place for her, in the Keep. Dany would have the child placed with a noble family to raise, but she knows of no nobles who will take a former whore into their homes to sup with them at the table and sleep in their linens.

That night, as every night, Jon arrives to perform his duty. Without fail, whether Daenerys has seen him that day or not, spoken to him or not, supped with him or not, he arrives after the evening meal, like a soldier presenting himself for service. He always knocks before entering from his adjoining chambers, fully clothed, and strips himself bare before her. If she tries to help him, she feels him tensing, feels his discomfort, so she takes to waiting, perched on the edge of the bed. Once he is undressed, Dany removes her robe and lies back on the bed as he climbs above her, and they perform the motions that by now are becoming routine. Sometimes he comes to her in a state of semi-hardness, sometimes not.

But tonight, after the girl, it takes him longer. Dany says nothing, at first, just patiently strokes him. He shuts his eyes, and she lets him, lets him drift away. He can do whatever he needs to if it means he will peak. But when it goes on too long for them to pretend that it isn’t happening, Jon stills her hand with his, looks at her. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s all right,” she says soothingly. He is erect, just not fully, not close to his spend. “Perhaps if you came inside of me . . .”

Jon nods, and, adjusting his angle, gently pushes into her. He closes his eyes again, beginning to move inside her. Dany puts her arms around his back, moving them up and down, across all the many scars there, trailing her fingers. She doesn’t mind this closeness. This part, she never minds. He drops a little lower, a little closer to her, lower than he usually allows himself, so that she could almost cradle his head, if he wouldn’t angle it so, away from her. She is hungry for his body, his beautiful body, this man who she sees is capable of a goodness and a kindness that she cannot seem to reach, that is shared with others but walled off from her alone. A hunger begins to overtake her and she wraps her legs around his lower back and buttocks. Jon immediately tenses, the entire length of his body going rigid as stone.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, close to tears, desperate. She _wants_ this man, impossibly, yet deeply so, and to have him so close, yet so far away, is maddening. She unravels her legs, places them demurely down upon the bed sheets again. “Please, will you kiss me, Jon?” Kissing has been avoided, has not become part of their awkward dance of performative copulation.

He turns his face to hers, and Dany sees she has upset him. The expression there is something she knows no word for other than tortured.

“Never mind,” she says, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks.

“Your Grace—“ Jon says, and withdraws himself from her immediately, alarmed. He searches her eyes wildly. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

“I’m not all right,” Daenerys says. Jon cups her face with one hand.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, aghast.

“Not in my body,” Daenerys says. She cannot do this. It is too painful, the way he is absent from himself forcing her to have to divorce herself from her own body. She places a hand on his chest and he rises and is off of her before she even has to push, climbing quickly off the bed and taking two steps back.

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” he says.

“Please just go,” she says. “I’m just—it seems neither of us is feeling ourselves, tonight.”

Jon bows. He won’t tarry, not after she has commanded him to leave. He gathers his clothing from the floor and goes to his door. He pauses there. “Please forgive me, Your Grace,” he says, and then leaves her, shutting the door behind him. Daenerys rolls onto her side, curling her body around itself, drawing her knees up toward her chin, pulls the furs over her naked body, and cries.

* * * 

A fortnight after the wedding, Dany’s blood arrives. She goes to his chambers to inform Jon. He nods gravely, and Dany leaves, before he can apologize. She doesn’t want to hear it. He will get a few days reprieve, at least. Before they must try again.

* * *

“We shall enforce a new law at once,” Daenerys says. “Rapers shall be put to death. By fire.”

She has stormed into the council room after leaving the throne room, leaving the horrific audience they have just taken with an ashen-faced father and a sobbing mother. The small council has followed after her, all of them, Tyrion and Varys, Grey Worm and Jon; her husband most closely at her heels.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion says. “If we might just pause for a moment. To collect ourselves. What we just heard was certainly most upsetting—“

“Upsetting?” Dany hisses. “A 12-year-old-girl was raped in the streets by six men from your Lannister army and the word you use is ‘upsetting’? What is wrong with _you_, my lord, that you do not wish to burn the city down?”

“For one thing the city contains many other 12-year-old-girls,” Tyrion says.

“Don’t make yourself an idiot,” Dany says. “You understand what I mean.”

Tyrion nods, gathering himself. He looks to Varys and then to Jon. “I agree that a change in our policies is in order,” he says. “Without the threat of the Others, sending rapers to the Wall does not seem to be a harsh enough punishment to deter them.”

“It never was,” Daenerys says. She turns to Jon. “Did these rapers suffer at the Wall? Was it a fitting punishment for their misdeeds?”

“Some of them suffered,” Jon says gravely. “But it wasn’t fitting, Your Grace. Most didn’t suffer enough.”

Daenerys looks at Tyrion triumphantly. Tyrion sighs. “If we might just spend a few moments, at least, considering the implications of your proposal. The people of Westeros are adjusting to the rule of a new Queen. Now is a time to build trust and goodwill among them—“

“Among which of them?” Daenerys says. “The just, or the corrupt?”

Tyrion looks at Jon. “And what say you, Your Grace?” he asks. “You spent time at the Wall with these rapers. Would you see them put to death for their crimes?”

Jon has been listening, standing as they all are because the Queen is still standing, with his hands folded behind his back.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with this, Lord Tyrion. I agree with Her Grace. Rape is a terrible crime, and this girl’s life will not be the same again. Death is a fitting punishment. In cases where the crime can be proven, of course.”

Daenerys cannot take her eyes off him. He looks to her, and nods. She returns the nod, grateful. Having Jon Snow’s support in this is a powerful feeling. With this small act of his, she feels steadier on her feet than she has in weeks.

“I want the decree issued immediately,” she says. “I want it cried on all the streets.” To Grey Worm, she says, “Find the men who did this. Bring them to me at once. Later we shall discuss whether former Lannister soldiers can be trusted at all.”

Grey Worm gives a short nod, and goes. Tyrion sighs. "I shall write a proclamation, then, Your Grace, and bring it to you for your approval this afternoon."

"Very good," Daenerys says. She dismisses them all, including Jon. Once alone, she goes out onto the balcony that overlooks the cold winter sea. She wants to mount Drogon, take him out into the city, and burn every raper in Queen's Landing, kill anyone who has ever hurt a child. She will change it all, she promises herself. Under her reign, no child will go hungry. No orphan will have to sell her body to live. The anger still has her stirred inside, she realizes, and she longs for the steadying presence of Jon, to help calm her. The difference in him from day to night is extreme, and she hasn't realized until now how much she has leaned on his temperance to anchor her. After a few moments of trying to calm herself to no avail, she goes to the door. "Have His Grace the King Consort brought to me," she says. She returns back to the balcony, and waits.

Before very long, he enters. "Your Grace?" he says from behind her, coming out onto the balcony. Dany turns to him. "Would you just stand here by me, for a little while?" she asks.

Jon nods. Daenerys imagines she sees something pass across his face--some understanding, some empathy, perhaps. "Certainly, Your Grace," he says. He holds his hands behind his back, as ever, forever the soldier awaiting orders. He stands obligingly next to her at the railing. Together, for some time, they simply breathe, and listen to the sea.

That night, when Jon comes to her, Daenerys is feeling hopeful. Buoyed by his support in the council meeting. Jon enters from his chambers and, observant as ever, notes that she doesn’t have a goblet of wine. He strips himself naked quickly, unceremoniously, and says, “May I pour you a glass of wine, Your Grace?”

“That would be lovely,” Daenerys says warmly. She unties her robe and slips it off her shoulders. “I was grateful for your support today, at council,” she says.

From the table, Jon glances over at her. “You will always have my support, Your Grace,” he says. “And everything I said was true. It’s a good law. Just.” He approaches the bed, handing her the glass of wine, and Daenerys takes it and sips. He stands there, his cock at her eye line, and she sees that it is middling hard. She has a sudden urge to take it in her mouth, but doubtless this would shock him overmuch.

“Will you sit?” she says instead. Jon sits next to her on the bed, gingerly, like he fears he might break it. Daenerys drinks again, getting up her courage, and then says, “I thought perhaps tonight you might let me do the work.”

Jon looks at her, his dark eyes wide. He is a dizzying array of hard muscle, pale flesh, riotous black curls above and below. She wants to tug on his beard, pull at his hair, devour him. “You are beautiful to me,” she breathes. Perhaps she has had too much wine already. “Am I beautiful to you?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” he nods. “You are beautiful. So very beautiful.”

Daenerys smiles. “Lie back,” she says.

Jon nods, and does as he is bid, lying back on the furs. His curls sprawl beneath him on the pillows; the most wanton thing about him, that mane, Dany thinks. She rises up onto her knees alongside him. He looks at her, and for a moment he seems so innocent, so helpless, gazing up at her that way. It propels her.

“I’m going to kiss you,” she says. “All right?” and he nods. She climbs atop him slowly, straddling him, her mound resting just above his own. She wants to start with his cock, but not yet, she tells herself. She doesn’t even start with his mouth. Leaning forward, her hands on either side of him, she begins where he begins, delicately placing her lips on the hollow of his throat, kissing him there. He draws in breath, releases it slowly. She moves her lips along his collar bone, planting gentle kisses, and instead of moving up toward his lips, moves downward, brushing her lips along his chest, to his nipples. She pauses to take one in her mouth, tugging at it, and Jon’s breathe hitches in his chest and she feels his cock, nestled between the cheeks of her seat, surge. She suckles that nipple, a little harder, and then moves on to the other, taking it into her mouth and pulling. Jon seems to like this. He lets out a strained little noise.

She works his nipples for a moment between shifting to place kisses down the hard line of his abdomen, over the striated muscles there. She considers placing one at the line where the hair around his manhood begins to grow, but deems it too risky. He is hard now, fully. She glances up at him, wary of what she might see. But his eyes are shut, no more tightly than usual. Afraid to draw things out overlong, Dany pushes back up to her knees and situates herself over his member. She takes it in her hand and strokes it a few times, feeling it surge pleasingly. Then she aligns herself and guides his cock into her opening, lowering herself onto him.

Jon’s hands grasp at the furs, squeezing them. When he is comfortably sheathed, Daenerys begins to rock, riding him. He furrows his brow, but it is an expression common among men during lovemaking. There is sweat along his forehead, and he holds himself still beneath her. She can see her own breasts, and his chest, and she knows that, despite all his shocking scars, they are beautiful together. A lovely sight.

Her eyes flutter shut in pleasure, and Dany welcomes the sensation of Jon inside her, feeling him more from this angle than from their usual one. She enjoys writhing her hips atop him, rocking back and forth, pumping him like this. Jon draws in a shuddery breath and Dany opens her eyes again, looking at him beneath her, and leans forward, placing her hands on his shoulders for purchase, ready to ride him harder, to bring him to orgasm.

Something happens. As soon as her palms push into him, Jon’s eyes snap open and Dany only has time to register that they are black before Jon lets out a sound that is frighteningly close to a growl, grabs her forcefully, and rolls, so that he is on top of her and she is beneath. Dany lands on the furs with a thump and freezes, staring up at him, his hands now pressing into her shoulders, pinning her down. He is crouching over her on all fours and fear coils in Daenerys’ belly. His teeth are bared to her, his eyes are not Jon’s eyes but something else, something wild and dangerous. _Like a wolf_.

He lowers himself, bending at the elbows, looking for all the world like a wild animal that is about to pounce and Daenerys tastes actual fear in the back of her throat. “Jon,” she says firmly, using her commanding voice, her Queen’s voice. “Jon, _stop_.”

He blinks, and there is a shift in his eyes. Black clouds part, and the clear, hard anger she sees there doesn’t dissolve completely, but is joined now by horror. “Your Grace,” he growls, and then vaults off of her. She draws the furs up over her body. He stands there for a moment, taking her in, his eyes confused, angry. Then he turns and stalks across the chambers, to the door to his own. Without a word or a glance, he leaves her, slamming the door. Daenerys lies still, panting, until she hears the outer door to his chambers open and close. He has left. She knows not where he will go. She brings a hand up to her mouth and moans into it, keeping her voice low, so that the guards at her door won’t hear. For a long while, Daenerys sits in her bed and breathes, until her heart returns to normal. She takes the glass of wine and sits by the fire and stares into it, drinking. It is late into the night before she climbs back into her bed to try to sleep. Jon’s chamber is silent.


	4. This is a Gift, it Comes With a Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion confronts Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Daario here.
> 
> RED SEA Jon had unusual healing abilities (stemming, if I understand correctly, from his resurrection), and so this Jon does too.
> 
> CW: This chapter contains graphic memories and flashbacks of rape, and deals heavily with survivor's guilt, and shame.

Jon knows she wants him.

So many people have wanted him. There have been those who have envied him for his appearance, but to Jon it has never been anything but a curse. It has only brought him unwanted attention, rape, flat out brutality.

Life has taught him how to see it—a glint in the eye. A gaze flickering about his face, skittering across his lips. She has wanted him since before their wedding, and she still wants him now.

He can’t give her what she wants.

He knows Her Grace deserves better. She is a beautiful woman, generous, passionate, and she deserves a lover who will fall willingly into her bed. Jon supposes there is some past version of him that would’ve been this person, as he was for Ygritte. But he’s not that person now, nor can he ever be again. He is different, now. Sometimes he is a stranger to himself. He doesn’t recognize this person who trembles at the sight of a naked woman. But here this person is. Inside him.

Aware of his lack, he tries to give her what little he can. He sees how she grows bored when they take petitioners, or hold audience with the citizens of Queen’s Landing and beyond. So he listens to every word, so that he may cover for her little errors, ease over places where her attention has slipped, offer counsel whenever she sees fit to call upon him. He can offer her this.

He can offer her his support. He believes in Her Grace. Sees the way she worries for the people of Queen’s Landing—the children, the poor. The whores. Her small council seems sometimes determined to be at odds with her, but Jon isn’t. What little authority he has here, he wields in support of her.

She doesn’t need it, not really. But he offers it anyway. It isn’t mere obedience. It goes beyond that. He tries to bolster her.

In this way, the days pass kindly enough. Being a leader is much easier, without the threat of the dead. He takes it seriously, his duty to the people of Queen’s Landing and beyond. His duty to Her Grace, to assist her however he can as she restores the city and her family’s dynasty.

But the nights. Those are a different matter. Looking back, Jon doesn’t know how he made it through the first one, other than sheer willpower. He had known that the thought of the wedding night had put a sickening twist in his gut for weeks preceding. But what he hadn’t been prepared for was the flood of memories. More than memories—visions, nearly. It had almost been as if Greyjoy himself were in the room with them. It had taken every bit of discipline he had ever had to develop in his life to keep himself there in that room, and keep himself calm on top of that. 

Everything about the act reminds him of Euron. The way she had sat on their first night together, in the chair with her legs parted invitingly, had brought back the image of Euron when he had first had Jon brought to him naked. He had splayed himself open the same way. Surveyed Jon’s body in the same manner. The way she had said “Look at me,” when he attempted to close his eyes, to gain distance from the situation. Euron had forever been commanding even Jon’s gaze, so that no part of Jon was free from his torture. Had forced Jon to _look_ as he had flayed people alive. Burned innocent women. Humiliated Theon. Tortured girls. _Look, bastard_, he would say, and Jon would look, because not looking would mean the torture of someone else.

He knows the husband, lover, and consort to Daenerys Stormborn should be able to offer her passion in the bedroom. But the stranger inside of Jon takes him over.  
  
She is the dragon. Chained to a lamed wolf.

He awakes with a little start, not recognizing where he is, only recognizing that he is on hay. Has Ramsay put him in the kennels, again? Is he bleeding _there_ again? Although he heals quickly, he still bleeds, and Ramsay doesn’t like him soiling the sheets after his rapes. He throws Jon onto the straw of the kennels more often than not, once his men are done with him. Collects him in the morning, remarking on how much Jon has bled this time. _Like a virgin maid every night_, he gloats.

But no, Jon remembers, and relief floods over him. He is not at Winterfell, with Ramsay. Not at Winterfell at all. He is in the Red Keep.

_Her Grace_.

Jon moans and curls up into himself with the memory of the night before. _Gods._ He had turned on her. Crouched over her, snarling, like a beast. He should have warned her as soon as she had settled on top of him. But he’d closed his eyes instead, and thought about Ygritte. It calmed him, sometimes. Replaced the thoughts of Euron that he was beginning to realize were never going to go away. He had been doing all right and even thought he might make it to his climax.  
  
Then Her Grace had put her hands on him, her weight, pinning him, and then Her Grace hadn’t been there at all, just Euron, holding him down while Jon struggled to force every muscle in his body that quivered with desire to fight into a terrible submission instead.  
  
That had been the hardest part, sometimes. Suppressing the body’s instincts to fight or flee. Jon had a warrior’s body, after all, and the urge was strong. Forcing his trembling muscles still, suppressing the roar of the blood, every nerve screaming at him to strike, punch, run. Holding himself still on hands and knees while Euron penetrated him, brutally, the pain agonizing. Because he had to. Because when he didn’t, the innocent suffered.

And gods, that evening when Her Grace had wrapped her legs around his back—suddenly Jon had been in a room not with the Queen but with Euron’s woman, Falia, who had jerked him about on his leash and forced Jon to pleasure her, again, and again, her legs wrapped around his back in the same manner as he knelt before her, forcing him in, closer to her. The only thing sustaining Jon the knowledge that a child would die, if he didn’t obey. The shame of the way his body had responded, his cock stiffening even under such conditions. What Euron had done, when he noticed. All these things had been swimming in Jon’s head, and then Her Grace had asked Jon to kiss her. He could recognize it now, the vulnerability on her face, the hurt—but at the moment there had been only Falia, ordering him to lick and suckle at her folds, and Euron, driving into him.

He feels sick, remembering what he’d done the night before to Her Grace. The look on her face, of shock and betrayal. Just hours before, the Queen had asked for his presence to calm her, and they had stood together in a safe silence, by the sea.

Then he’d gone and done what he’d done.

Every night he tells himself that this night, he will only see Her Grace. And every night when he draws near to her he is flooded anew with memories of all the women he was forced to touch. To kiss. To put his mouth on again and again until they had finally sated their pleasure on him. All day long he tells himself that Her Grace is not these women, that she is his wife, and that she is different from them. That she would not do to him what they did. And every night he loses her again, to their memory. 

_You need to tell her_, he thinks. If he’s going to become violent, she has a right to know.

But the idea is overwhelming.

Since he escaped from Euron, he has not allowed himself to speak his name. Has feared that doing so would draw the man closer—would allow him back into Jon’s mind. After months of being raped and tortured, it had been the invasion of his mind that had been the ultimate horror. When Euron has realized he could enter Jon, see through him, there had been no way for him to escape. Nowhere to go. Now that the connection appeared to be severed, Jon was terrified of drawing it back.

He can’t help but worry that by speaking of Euron, he will summon him in. Like dark magic. Like a curse.

And would she even believe him? Can a man truly be raped? Jon knows why he did what he did. No threat to his own body could have made him submit to the things he submitted to. But Euron had seen that, and threatened children. How could Jon refuse anything when doing so would be the death of an innocent?

And does that not mean that, on some level, Jon consented to what Euron did?

_No_, he tells himself. _No_. He never consented. He did what he had to do to save innocent lives.

But Ramsay . . . Ramsay had simply subdued him by force. Overwhelmed him with numbers. Bound him with ropes. Wouldn’t take the risk Euron had taken by putting Jon on a leash and then simply commanding him to obey.

The thought of Ramsay combined with the scent of the hay brings back a visceral memory—his face pushed into the hay until he thought he’d suffocate, he couldn’t breathe, and a man pounding into him, splitting him open, the hay cutting at his face as Jon bit back screams, tried to swallow his agony, his feet scrambling to get beneath him and failing--

Jon forces his eyes open, forces himself to see what he’s dealing with. He is, indeed, in the stables, and doesn’t remember how he arrived. Must have come here out of instinct while in his half-animal state.

Suddenly something wet and cold is on the side of his face and Jon flinches away, turning to see what manner of animal has decided to nose at him.  
  
“Ghost?” Jon says, in disbelief. The white dire wolf is standing over him, managing to look concerned. Ghost nudges him again with his nose and Jon begins to laugh, taking the dire wolf around its neck, scruffing at the fur there. “Ghost! What are you doing here?” Ghost licks at his face. Jon has no idea where the wolf has been. Hasn’t seen him since leaving Winterfell to take what was then King’s Landing.  
  
He spends a long while there with his beast, petting him. Somehow the dire wolf’s presence makes it easier for him to at last get up and face what he has to face.  
  
He must apologize to his wife. Again. It seems like nearly every day, there is something he needs to apologize for. For not being able to touch her, to hold her, the way she craves. He wonders if she knows he holds her at night, when she whimpers with her dreams. Holds her until her body goes still, until her breathing evens.  
  
What kind of man can only hold his wife when she’s asleep?

What kind of _king_?  
  
Jon rises, brushing hay from his cloak, and decides to start by going to his own chambers. The fact that he is fully dressed is a mercy--less chance of anyone seeing him up at this hour and suspecting him of sneaking in and out of some pretty maid’s chambers in the night. He will wash and dress. He will apologize to Her Grace. He will face the day.

And then he will suffer through another night.

* * * 

  
  
“You have wounded the Dragon Queen,” Tyrion says. 

Jon’s breath stops in his throat. What has he done, in that half-animal state? Could he have struck her? His stomach twists.

Tyrion notes his distress. “Wounded her pride,” he corrects quickly. “Our Queen is a proud woman, and a beautiful one. It will not go well for you if she believes you don’t want her.”  
  
Relief is followed quickly by shame. “I’m sorry. I know,” Jon says, rubbing at his eyes. He sinks down into a chair. Ghost lets out a little whine, then settles down by the fire.

“I can’t believe you don’t have wine in here,” Tyrion says. They are in Jon’s private chambers. Tyrion was waiting for Jon when he arrived, which was, Jon knew, not a favorable situation for the Queen’s husband to be in. _“I didn’t—I slept elsewhere_,” Jon had said, afraid Tyrion would think the worst, but Tyrion had raised a hand, shaking his head, to stop him. “_Explanations are not necessary, Your Grace,_” he’d said. _“I’ve been informed of last night’s—disturbance_.”

“I can have some sent along, if you’d like, Lord Hand,” Jon says now. He remembers meeting Tyrion for the first time, at Winterfell, when he’d come with King Robert, and Cersei and Jaime. How hard Jon had thought things were for him, then, when he was nothing but the Bastard of Winterfell, banished to a lesser table because of his ignoble birth. How painfully easy that younger Jon’s life was, compared to now.

Tyrion waves his hand. “Better not,” he says. “Your wife implores me to wait until midday. Seems she likes her council members to be conscious. Speaking of your wife, she summoned me from my bed at daybreak. This is the second time you’ve given her cause to wake me at dawn, I do wish you’d stop doing that. It seems that last night you startled her.”

“I’m ashamed of what happened. I was coming to apologize,” Jon says. “Is she all right?”  
  
“She’s had better mornings. Forgive me, Your Grace, but do you not find her beautiful?” Tyrion presses gently. “Is some aspect of her not pleasing to you? I’d ask if you didn’t like women, but I’ve heard you enjoyed your Wildling lover well enough.”  
  
_Her name was Ygritte_. “It isn’t that. She’s beautiful, of course. No one could deny that. She’s brave, and just. It’s just that—I had—an experience. Before the war,” Jon says, and then falters, trying to decide whether more must be said.  
  
“With Euron,” Tyrion offers. “I know he used you rough.”

Anger swells in Jon, so quickly and forcefully that it’s as if it was still there from the night before, just waiting for another chance to rise up and take him over. _Used him rough_. Like Jon was nothing but a horse, broken ungently. Ghost sits up and looks at him. He forces himself to hold it back.

“You knew?” he says to Tyrion, his voice carefully contained.

“I didn’t. Now I do. It just so happens, Your Grace, that a few days ago Lord Varys received news from some of his little birds. They had quite a tale to tell about you, and the Greyjoy fiend, and the Bolton Bastard. It seems that things did not go well for you, there?”

Jon doesn’t know how he can possibly answer this. He looks at Tyrion, and says nothing.

“You are not the first man abused in such a way, Jon Snow, nor will you be the last,” Tyrion says, in a tone that Jon can recognize is an attempt at kindness, but doesn’t feel that way. It feels like dismissal. “Though I am sorry you experienced it. I can imagine it would be unpleasant.”

Unpleasant. What is the point of trying to explain to him? When the girl had been raped in the streets by the Lannister soldiers, Tyrion had been sympathetic, but had taken the event as a matter of course. Something that happened in life, however unfortunately. He had not begun to grasp the devastation.

But Tyrion is the Queen’s Hand. “Are you going to tell Her Grace?” Jon says flatly. Resigned to his fate.

Tyrion quirks his head at him. “Do you want me to?”

Jon is shaking his head. “No. Her Grace doesn’t need to know about the brutal ways of men.”  
  
Tyrion actually laughs. “My dear boy. Do you really imagine a woman can build herself a khalasar, an army of freed slaves, conquer three cities, and then sail to Westeros to take the Iron Throne, all without knowing of the brutal ways of men? The brutal ways of men are all she’s ever known. I would like for her to know the gentle ones. Now that we are in a time of peace.” He looks at Jon shrewdly. “Peace can be harder, you know. For men who have built their lives around war.”  
  
Jon looks at him. “Speak plainly please, Tyrion. You know I’m not much with words.”

Tyrion sighs. “Very well. The news puts us both in an embarrassing situation, I’m afraid. I should have found out what happened before marrying you to her. And you should have told her. It’s just that I never imagined Jon Snow being capable of harboring secrets.”

“I didn’t harbor them to hurt her,” Jon says. “I didn’t think—the alliance was necessary. You wanted it. It was good for the North.” There had never been any question of Jon not accepting the proposal. And Jon had been glad to do it, for Sansa’s sake, and Arya’s. Glad that his sisters, neither of whom wanted to marry, would not be forced to submit to a union of political gain, a marriage more likely to be miserable than not, as so many women had throughout all the years before them. The situation was unusual—a woman king. Jon had been grateful that it could be he who was asked to sacrifice for his family this way, he who could offer himself up. Sansa and Arya had sacrificed enough.

“I’m certain you didn’t, Your Grace,” Tyrion says. “As I do not harbor them now to hurt her, but to protect the two of us, and in doing so, protect the realm.

Jon frowns at him. “She doesn’t need you or me to secure the realm. She could dispense with us both, if she wanted, and be just fine.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Tyrion says. “But she does need the North. I doubt she and Sansa are going to agree to marry one another in your stead—and that would be most unusual indeed, even for Westeros—and Her Grace can be hot blooded at times, as you know. I wouldn’t want her to do anything rash. If matters can be remedied between you, I don’t see any reason why we should need to make this known. And I suspect very strongly that you have your own reasons for keeping it from us. Good reasons. You wouldn’t have done it otherwise, you’re far too noble.”

He speaks all these words quickly, trying to distract Jon, perhaps, but Jon’s attention catches on one part of what Tyrion has just expressed. _Do anything rash. _He knows what is not being said.

“You’re afraid that if she knew, she wouldn’t want me.”

Tyrion’s eyes are sad, and grave, as he regards Jon. When he speaks, his voice is low, heavy with the weight of what is now between them. “Can you imagine,” he says. “If she were a man, and I had married her to a woman who had been abused the way you have? By more than one man?”

A king would have Tyrion’s head. And the woman’s. The thought twists Jon’s gut. Not because he fears Her Grace will have him executed—but with the knowledge that what was done to him was so shameful, that, had it been done to a woman, it would have ruined that woman for life.

He had put Her Grace in jeopardy. The thought floods him with regret. “I don’t want to shame Her Grace. I don’t want what happened to me to be known.”

Tyrion nods. “Again, forgive me, but you do realize that, if she were a man, I would have procured her a mistress by now? Someone to entertain and comfort the monarch, when such cannot be found in the marital bed. Someone to bring her delight. Pleasure.”

“I’ve tried,” Jon says, flushing. “Every night, I offer to pleasure her. She always refuses.”

“You don’t offer a woman an orgasm, Your Grace, you give her one.”

Jon nods. It’s clear what he has to do. “You should end the marriage. I won’t fight it. I’m not a suitable partner for Her Grace. I can’t give her what she wants, it’s been three months and I’ve failed to give her an heir. And I was violent with her. “

“You weren’t violent—“

“She woke you at dawn to tell you what I did—“

“—you were merely over passionate in the act of love.”

Jon blinks at Tyrion. “Shouldn’t you be looking out for her?”

“I am,” Tyrion says firmly. “The first and most important thing in looking out for her is looking out for her reign. If she doesn’t have that, she has nothing. And for a successful reign, she needs a solid alliance with the North. You do not have any surviving brothers. It all depends upon you.”

_If only Robb were here_. He would have made Her Grace a proper match. “If it’s the alliance you’re worried about, The North will remain loyal to the Queen. I pledged my sword to her. That will never change. ”

“Will it? And your sister Sansa is just going to step aside for you, then? When you return to Winterfell to take over as its Warden?”

Jon considers this. “I’ll give Sansa rule of the North. She’ll listen to me, about Her Grace.”

“Sansa no longer listens to anyone,” Tyrion says. “And why should she? She has been through a situation similar to yours and got out of it using only her own wits. She had no Wildlings to come to her aid. She will never give herself over to anyone, again. Not even to a Dragon Queen,” Tyrion says meaningfully. Jon looks at him, shocked. Tyrion is suggesting that, if Jon left the marriage and gave Sansa rule, Sansa would revolt. He is suggesting his sister would commit treason.

“Don’t speak of her like that—“

“You know I admire your sister greatly. Both of them, actually. I am only speaking the truth. Though it may not seem this way, Your Grace, our hold on the North is tenuous and the only thing securing it is you. Sansa cares a great deal for you, and will comply only because as the Queen's husband, your well-being is at stake. Her Grace needs you.”

Jon lets out a long sigh, succumbing to overwhelm, to despair. “Then what would you have me do?” he says, his breath ragged. Ghost rises from the fireplace and comes to sit as his side. Jon puts his palm on the dire wolf’s head, trying to calm himself.

“Amend matters with your wife. Give her what she needs, Jon Snow. What she craves. Make yourself hungry for her, and in turn let her feast upon you. In short, put aside your memories, and submit. It is necessary for the marriage. For the North. For the realm.”

How can Jon tell Tyrion the truth—that sex is a torture he submits himself to night after night? That Jon dreads it so much, that it leaves him so sickened, that he would do nearly anything to get a reprieve from it? What sort of man doesn’t want to bed his beautiful wife? Tyrion couldn’t possibly understand. Jon can’t tell him any of this. And while Jon would do nearly anything for a reprieve, he will not sacrifice the safety of his sisters. Of the North.

“I am sorry for what happened to you,” Tyrion says. “But for the sake of the realm—for the sake of your sisters—you must do better. These things that were done to you, they must be your burden alone. Don’t burden your wife. Learn to place the memories deep inside of you. Or better yet, far away from you. They must not interfere with your husbandly duties any longer. Do you understand?”

Jon sees that he is right. He nods.

“I understand, Lord Hand. I’ll do better,” he says. “Tell her I’ll do better.”

Tyrion’s shoulders drop, and he sighs with relief. “Good. You are a man, after all, Your Grace. Surely it’s only a matter of time before carnal desires begin to stir you again. I find a little wine always helps these matters myself,” Tyrion says. Jon shakes his head.  
  
“Oh come now Snow, surely even you aren’t above a little liquid courage—“  
  
“He used to drug me,” Jon says quietly. “Put milk of the poppy in my wine. Until I couldn’t bear to be without it.”  
  
Tyrion blinks slowly, his eyes solemn. “Now this I didn’t know. You’ve been hiding your proclivity well, it would seem. Perhaps the Queen will burn me alive after all.”  
  
“I’m not hiding anything. At least, not with that. I broke myself from the habit. It nearly broke me, but I did it.”  
  
Tyrion looks impressed. “That must have taken great strength,” he says solemnly. “I have known of no one else, man or woman, who has managed to break himself from the poppy, once the habit has taken hold.”  
  
Jon shrugs. He had not been strong, he had relied upon the strength of others. Had told Sansa and Tormund to lock him in his room and not to let him out for two weeks, no matter what Jon did, or said. No matter how he screamed. And he had screamed. And threatened to kill Tormund. A few days in he had thrown himself at the man when he had come to bring him food and water. Tormund had wrestled him to the ground and held Jon there, until Jon stopped fighting, all his muscles trembling and cramping so hard he was writhing with it. When the vomiting had started, Tormund had merely turned Jon over and held him over a basin until it passed. His friend had stayed with him after that, afraid Jon would throw himself from a window, so mad Jon was with the leaving of the poppy. Listening all day and night to Jon’s angry ranting, his vomiting, his bowels turning to water. Tormund had kept Sansa away, knowing Jon wouldn’t want his sister to see him like that. He had fed and cleaned Jon himself, and held Jon down when Jon’s body went to violence. Jon had been helpless and pitiful. It was the people around him who had shown strength.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll correct myself.”

Tyrion nods, and moves toward the door. Then he stops. “One last thing, Your Grace. Your wife requests that you not come to her again until she sends for you. She says that of course you are not to take this personally. She finds herself overtaxed by her duties. ‘

Jon nods. “Certainly. Whatever Her Grace desires.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow ironically at this, and then leaves.

Jon rides.

“There are pleasures to be found in your positions,” Tyrion keeps telling them, he and Her Grace both, as if he _wants_ them to fritter their time away at idle pastimes. The Queen had grown annoyed and asked him if he wanted her to take up the needle and stitch the people of Westeros a new reality. Tyrion had given her his long suffering look. Jon smiled at the memory.

But Tyrion was right. There are pleasures to be found, ones that have nothing to do with sensual matters. Jon has the horse master saddle him his white palfrey, who he has called Bear, in memory of Jeor Mormont. The guards insist on escorting him to the city gates, Ghost loping along beside them all, but once he hits the open country, he bids them leave, and is free. Not since he was at Winterfell has Jon had cause to ride for pleasure, and not for travel or war. He takes the horse out across a vast field, scattered with snow, and pushes it to his limit, enjoying the thundering of the hooves, the wild heave of the animals body beneath him, so powerful, the winter wind rushing about him, slapping his face, batting at his hair. Soon he is breathless, but Bear pushes on. Ghost keeps apace.

He is taking the horse across an open plain, approaching the sea, when a great black shadow sweeps overhead of him. He instinctively ducks, even as he realizes what it is, and then it surpasses him and he can see it: the magnificent shape of Drogon looming in the sky. The great beast sweeps over him with his wings unfolded, so impossibly large that he seems to take up all of the sky. Then Drogon beats his great wings, rising, and turns, and as he does Jon spots the shape of Her Grace on his back, her hair a silver comet behind her. The sight takes Jon’s breath away. He slows his horse, pauses in the field to watch his Queen on the back of her awesome beast. The Dragon Queen. Seeing her now, even with only the one dragon, is such an incredible sight—a heart-pounding, breath-taking sight—that it’s hard to believe anyone ever imagined they could stop her doing anything she wanted. Jon sits his horse, the animal heaving behind him, and watches his Queen ride away. He doesn’t know if she saw him, or if coincidence brought them here at the same time. When she has disappeared for sight, he turns Bear, and heads for home.

After the ride, before the midday meal, Jon attends the council meeting. Her Grace doesn’t look at him. He tries to respect her needs, to give her space. Tyrion suggests inviting envoys from all the free cities in Essos. The Queen seems uninterested but nods her approval, then cuts the meeting unusually short.

In the afternoon, Jon goes down to the pitch to instruct several young lords and ladies of the court on the sword. They are waiting for him--Marya Blackfyre and Addam Ashford, the three Tully children, Little Hoster and Robert and their sister Alysanne, relatives of Lady Catelyn’s, and Lucion Lannister. Today there is a new one, a little girl about the age that Arya was when he gave her Needle. The children bow and curtsey when he enters, all but the new one, who crosses her arms and scowls at him.

“Hello,” he says to her. “What’s your name?”

“Lora Tyrell. I was named after Ser Loras. The Knight of Flowers. He was a great knight.”

“Aye, so he was,” said Jon. She is frowning at him so fiercely he has to work to keep his face straight. “And you want to learn the sword, like him?”

“Yes Your Grace. But I don’t want to learn it from you.”

A few of the children gasp at this disrespect, but Jon only says, “And who do you want to learn it from?”

“Ser Brienne. She’s the greatest knight in the seven kingdoms.”

“Girls can’t be knights,” says the Ashford boy.

“They can’t?” says Jon. “Do you want to be the one to tell Ser Brienne that? Because I don’t.”

“She’s the only one,” he says.

“Perhaps, aye,” says Jon. “For now. But there will be more.”

“Not likely,” he says. “It’s too hard for girls.” He casts a doubtful look at Marya and Alysanne as he says it. Both of the girls faces turn to Jon, to see how he will react.

“Have you not heard of Arya Stark? It was a girl who killed the Night’s King.” He turns back to Lora Tyrell. “Ser Brienne lives in Winterfell, with my sister, Lady Stark. She can’t teach you now, but she’ll be back here to visit, sooner or later. Do you think you might practice with me, for a little while? This way you’ll be able to show her what you know, when she arrives.”

Lora’s mouth remains set in a grim line and for a moment, Jon is reminded of Lyanna Mormont. The memory is painful, knocking into him so powerfully he draws in a sharp breath, tries to let it pass. Lora Tyrell nods at him.

“Fine,” she says. “But you mustn’t shame me. I don’t want to go before Ser Brienne, looking like a fool.”

“I shall try no to, my Lady,” Jon says gravely, rising. “Now, men and women,” he says, in a more commanding tone. “Shields up. I don’t want anyone dropping their shields today, or you’ll get your head rung like a bell, is that clear?”

“Yes Your Grace!” they answer. Lady Lora looks at him skeptically, but takes her wooden sword up in one hand, her shield in the other.

“Can I attack that one?” she says, and points her sword directly at Addam Ashford. Jon fails to bite back a smile.

“Eventually,” he says. “But you have to let me teach you a few things, first.”

Lora Tyrell nods. She appears as if she is going to obey. But Jon will have to pull her off the Ashford boy twice before the lesson is over. “If you continue not to listen,” he says the second time, “I’ll send you down to the scullery to scrub pots with the maids, is that clear?” But secretly, he knows he’s found his favorite.

When it is time for supper, Jon takes a deep breath, and then knocks on his inner door, the one that leads directly to Her Grace’s chamber. There is a pause long enough to make him anxious, and then Missandei opens the door.

“Your Grace,” she says, nodding respectfully. “I’m afraid Her Grace is overtired this evening, and bids you to please go to sup without her.”

Jon nods, his chest sinking. “Of course,” he says. “Would you ask Her Grace if I might have a moment’s audience, before I go? I’d like to apologize.”

Missandei looks over her shoulder, then turns back to Jon. She gives him a small smile and says, “All right. Please come in, Your Grace,” standing aside to let Jon pass.

It is cold in the chambers. Though a fire crackles in the hearth, the Queen is standing by the window, which is thrust open, allowing in the winter air. Her hair is loose about her shoulders, and she is in a night robe he hasn’t seen before, made of velvet black as night, lined with black fur.

As Jon enters, she turns, but directs her gaze not at him, but at Missandei. She gives her maidservant a small nod, and Missandei departs, leaving them alone together.

“My Lord,” Daenerys says.

“Your Grace,” Jon says, and drops down to one knee, bowing his head. “I want to tell you how sorry I am, for what I did. I don’t know what happened. Something came over me, I won’t let it happen again.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” she says. Jon has been prepared to keep his head bowed and allow her to express whatever anger she must, but at her light tone, he looks up at her. “Not for a simple misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding, Your Grace?”

“Indeed. It is common, among newly married husbands and wives, I would imagine.”

Jon doesn’t understand what is happening. He says nothing.

“I hope you won’t mind attending dinner alone tonight,” she continues. “I’m afraid I’m feeling quite tired.” With these words she sits on the edge of her bed, as if to prove how tired she is.

“I—of course. Whatever you wish, Your Grace.”

“Thank you. You are most understanding. Missandei?” she calls. Jon hears the door swing open. “Please see that the Lord Hand is available to provide company for His Grace at dinner.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Missandei says. She leaves again, and Jon understands he’s been dismissed. He pushes up off his knee, rising back to a stand.

“At your leave, then, Your Grace,” he says, meeting the Queen’s tone, which has been removed and oddly formal. She nods, granting her permission. There is nothing for him to do but turn and leave her there, in her cold room with the window open, embers dimming in the hearth.

For eleven days, the Queen doesn’t send for him. Eleven nights on which Jon is allowed to lie alone, in his own bed, in his own chambers, untouched. He knows he is in the Queen's disgrace, that he shouldn't be grateful for it, but he can't help it. The respite is sweet.

Jon doesn’t allow himself to go so far as to hope for a pregnancy, but he can’t stop himself thinking about the possibility, either. Though Jon’s primary concern is proving himself capable of giving the Queen what she wants, he sometimes thinks he should love to have a child. A little girl, with the Queen’s silver hair. Or perhaps black hair like his, and Her Grace’s violet eyes. Or a boy, it wouldn’t matter; but for some reason, when Jon imagines what it might be like, he always imagines a girl. A little dragon-wolf.

Then, on the twelfth night, Her Grace arrives in his chambers. He stands, and his heart sinks. Her face is drawn.

“I have bled. I should be grateful for your company three evenings hence, my lord.”

“Of course,” Jon says, inclining himself toward her in something between a bow and a nod. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.” He knows how deeply she desires a child. Knows it goes deeper, much deeper, than simply securing an heir. He feels that if he cannot be the lover she desires, he at least ought to be able to give her her child, and the arrival of her blood each moon hurts him, arrives like a rebuke. Her Grace gives him a long look. It pains him to see that she is pale, that the shine is missing from her eyes.

“So am I,” she says.

She leaves him. _Three evenings hence._ Jon sinks back into his chair and falls forward, his elbows on his knees, his forehead buried in his hands. He forces himself to breathe deeply. Tries to ignore the sudden roiling in his gut. Yes, he thinks, he should love a child. But a royal pregnancy would mean more than an heir for him.

It would mean a full year of relief.


	5. I Hunt For You With Bloodied Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An envoy arrives from Meereen. Daenerys tries to reach Jon. Jon continues to struggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the entrance of Daario into Queen's Landing, and an emotionally brutal Jon/Dany sex scene. The scene involves a matter of dubious consent, so please be warned if that is a trigger for you. 
> 
> Please imagine version two of show!Daario rather than book!Daario, if you are able. I knew show Daario first, so he remains primary to me. 
> 
> CW: dubious consent, rape flashbacks, memories of rape, sexual trauma, and sexual torture (orgasm denial).

Daario Naharis approaches the throne with every bit of his old swagger. Daenerys keeps her face a blank slate. Men paint upon it what they wish to see; it often works in her favor. He fixes his eyes on her, a crooked grin on his face. When he reaches the dais, he goes down on one knee with a flourish, bowing his head.  
  
“You are in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, first of her name . . . ” As Missandei announces all her many titles and names, Daenerys watches Daario, her eyes roaming over his form, searching for change. He has lost no major features in battle, she is glad to see. Ears, nose, lips all in tact. He has arrived with a retinue of Second Sons, and behind him stands a long line of men and women holding baskets of flowers and fruit, still available on the other side of Dragons Bay, and fine silks, spices, jars that likely hold precious oils and perfumes. Brought as offering to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. As she studies him, Daario keeps his head respectfully down, but lets his eyes roam up from beneath his brow and gives her a look that is too familiar by far, for a lord commander of the army of a distant outpost to give his Queen. Daenerys does not react. But it’s all she can do to keep from turning, to see if Jon notices the flirtatious look this man just gave his wife, right in front of him.

Missandei finishes her introductions. "Your Grace," Daario says, rising, and unsheathes his arakh.

Before he can balance it on his palms and bow his head, Jon is between them.

It all happens so quickly. One moment, Dany is remaining impassive in the face of Daario Naharis' charms, and then next, Jon Snow is standing between her and the man with the arakh, Longclaw half drawn, Jon’s hand on the hilt. Ready to defend her from what some battle-sharp instinct of his has perceived as danger.  
  
The room goes so silent, she can hear people breathing.

"It's all right," Daenerys said, as quietly as she can, attempting to make the words for Jon’s ears only, though it is difficult, in the quiet. Daario drops his head into a lower bow, and holds the arakh on his palms before him.

"My deepest apologies, Your Grace," he says to Jon Snow. "I only meant to pledge your wife my arakh."

With a look back at Dany, Jon nods, sheaths his sword.

"Forgive me," he says, and steps aside, reassuming his place beside Dany.

"An apology is unnecessary, Your Grace," Daario says. Then he turns his eyes up to Dany. "Your King is protective of you. I would expect no less of the husband of Queen Daenerys Stormborn."

Daenerys raises an eyebrow mildly. "I believe you were about to pledge me your arakh, Lord Commander Naharis."

"Ah yes. Daenerys Stormborn, first of your name, Queen of the Andals and of the First Men, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, the Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt. I pledge you my weapon and my will. My sword is yours, my heart is yours. I will give my life for yours if need be."  
  
“Thank you, Lord Commander,” Daenerys says, with a regal nod. Daario then turns to Jon.

“King Jon,” Daario says. “King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, King in the North. I pledge you my weapon and my will. My sword is yours. I will give my life for yours if need be.”

Dany doesn’t show it, but she is unnerved. Of course Daario would have to pledge his fealty to Jon, as well. Jon is his monarch. Daario commands the Queen’s army in service of the free city of Meereen. His oath is necessary. But she hadn’t been prepared for it. Tyrion should have warned her about this, so she might have been prepared. She keeps her eyes forward as next to her, Jon nods.

“Do you swear to serve House Targaryen with your hand, heart and voice?” Jon says. So one of them, at least, knows the Westerosii etiquette. 

“I do,” Daario replies. “I will obey your command, defend you from harm, counsel you when requested but otherwise keep silent. Any children I have shall serve as men-at-arms or maidservants. Neither they nor I shall rule here.”

“Rise, then, Commander Naharis, as Lord Commander in the service of House Targaryen,” says Jon.

Daenerys casts a glance at Tyrion. He quirks his head to the side, realizing something has displeased her, but not knowing what. Dany can’t necessarily even name what it is, herself. She just feels she ought to have been prepared. An oversight of Tyrion’s.

One by one, men in armor and women in far too little clothing for the winter climate lay baskets of finery before her and Jon. Daario stands to the side, and it is difficult for Dany not to look at him—this man who knew her before she was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, when she was just a Khaleesi with 8,000 Unsullied, three dragons, two braids, and some gold. So much has changed, since she saw him last. They hardly know each other anymore, and yet her body remembers him. It recalls the way he’d use his hand between her legs. Involuntarily, Dany gives a little shiver, the physical memory a jolt to her system. She has asked Tyrion to fill Jon in on her past with Daario Naharis--"Only what he needs to know," she had said pointedly, and Tyrion had nodded his understanding. He had told Jon that Daario was an old friend who had helped Her Grace along the way. That was all. 

She looks now to her husband. He turns his head to meet her gaze, and she attempts a smile. His face is serious, as ever, but he lifts one corner of his mouth. All his smiles are sad. Does he despise it so, being King?

Or is it just that he hates being her husband? Matters have somehow both improved and worsened since Tyrion’s intervention. Jon makes more of an effort in the evenings—has starting kissing her again, about her neck and shoulders, even on her lips. Sometimes he lightly strokes her along her sides, along her hips. But it is ruined by the fact that Daenerys knows he is doing this because Tyrion told him to. She still lets him perform his task of washing her clean of their lovemaking every night. She allows it because it feels good—and because these are the only few moments every day when Jon is both tender to her, and calm. It’s something, she tells herself. It must be building _something._

The tentative rapport they had managed to create has been strained by Tyrion’s intervention as well. Dany no longer feels the sense of calm and security in Jon’s presence that she had for a brief time. While he still offers his support to her, in all matters, she finds it hard to let herself trust it. Considering what they go through in the nights.

Meanwhile, her monthly blood continues to arrive. Each time like a slap.

They hear the formal reports from Meereen. Daenerys is satisfied, but Jon has questions. He asks about the city’s defenses, at land and at sea. About the Sons of the Harpy, who have taken up against Meereen’s new government, about what steps have been taken to make sure the Republic represents the will of the people. “You’ve brought us many fine things,” he says, his burly voice even, as it always is in state affairs. “But if the small folk of the city struggle for shelter and food, these fineries are wasted.”

It is a valid point. While Daenerys doesn’t rule the people of Meereen, she desires their goodwill. Trade will be of vital importance to Westeros during the long winter. And her liberation of Dragon’s Bay will be for nothing, if the government doesn’t hold, and rule justly.

“You make an excellent point, Your Grace,” Daario says. “But I’m afraid I am just a soldier, not a statesmen. 

“But the people sent you to speak for them, did they not?” Dany asks.

“Not the people, exactly, Your Grace,” Daario says. “But the Elect. They sent these gifts as tokens of their goodwill to the Dragon Queen. They trusted me to deliver them, and to speak here at the Red Keep, in light of our previous affiliation.”

“And are the small folk pleased with the decisions of the Elect, Lord Commander?” Jon asks.

“I believe that they are, Your Grace. But I shall make it my mission to come to you next time with more knowledge.” His eyes land on Dany as he finishes speaking. She decides she cannot sit here for another minute. Keeping her face expressionless, she nods at him.

“Thank you, Commander Naharis. Surely you are tired from your journey. We have had baths drawn up, so that you may refresh yourselves before dinner. Missandei will show you to your quarters.”

Daenerys rises. Jon rises with her. The people of court and the retinue from Meereen all make their bows as the Queen and King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms take their leave.

“Your questions for Commander Naharis were wise,” Dany says to Jon, once they are in the hallways of the Keep. Jon looks uncertain as to how to reply.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Although Meereen is a free city, I feel it would not reflect well upon you, were it to fall into chaos.”  
  
“Indeed,” Daenerys agrees. She turns over her shoulder to Tyrion and raises an eyebrow. “The oaths Naharis made. I wasn’t prepared for them.”

Tyrion furrows his brow, trying to understand. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I assumed you would know to expect them.”

“In the future, please assume far less about me,” she says.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Tyrion says, giving a little bow. “I shall.”

  
  
All evening and into the night, Daenerys feels his eyes on her.  
  
He sits close to the high table, an honored guest, surrounded by men she doesn't know--soldiers, comrades, men from the life he has lived since she left Meereen. As the toasts are made, his eyes glimmer at her over his cup. When the dancing begins, he moves around the room, but takes no partners. Her eyes are drawn towards him, and it seems that every time she glances at him, he catches her looking.  
  
This makes her angry. He should show more respect. She reaches for her wine and sips it, to steady herself, and her hand quivers slightly as she lifts the glass to her lips. She glances at her husband. If he has noticed, he doesn't show it. His eyes are ahead, on the dancing. She knows he will not ask her to dance. It occurs to Dany that she has no idea if Jon even knows how. Probably not. Although he is surprisingly well-versed in courtly etiquette, she doubts that the rough-hewn Northerners would have given much thought to teaching their true born sons to dance, let alone their bastard.

“Did you hold dances at Winterfell, my Lord?” she asks. Jon turns to her, and the apprehension on his face is so apparent, it nearly makes Dany smile. Clearly he is afraid she will suggest that they dance. 

“On occasion my father and Lady Catelyn would hold one, aye. But I never attended them, nor learned how. Lady Catelyn felt it wasn’t appropriate, to have a bastard there with the lords and ladies of the great houses.”

“Sometimes I think I’d like to strangle your Lady Catelyn,” Daenerys says, more to herself than anything, not expecting a reaction. She is surprised, then, when a corner of Jon’s mouth actually lifts in a smile.

“I was a trial for her, but she wasn’t cruel to me. I think you might have liked her, actually, Your Grace. She was strong, like you. And she loved her children fiercely.”

Daenerys raises an eyebrow at this. “I think you are too generous to her and I both,” she says, and turns away, because the mention of children has brought up something difficult between them, and she knows they both feel it. Lady Catelyn gave birth to five children. Daenerys would be happy to give birth to even one.

Her eyes back on the crowd, she sees that Daario is now approaching them. He halts before the high table and bows, then straightens and raises his cup.  
  
"A toast," he says. "To the Dragon Queen. If you'll remember, I always knew you'd take your throne."  
  
"To the Dragon Queen," Tyrion says from her side. Daenerys raises her goblet, as does Jon next to her. His is filled with water, she knows. She knows because there have been moments, late at night, when she has imagined contriving to get him drunk, only to see if it would make things easier for them. If it would ease him some, calm his nerves. She isn’t proud of it, but she can’t deny she’s thought it. She drinks, and the room drinks.  
  
"Has it brought you happiness?" Daario asks.  
  
"Personal happiness is not a concern befitting a monarch," she replies. "Not a good one, anyway."

She makes the reply without thinking much, but it seems to land hard on the men around her. Tyrion blanches. Jon looks further down into his cup, furrowing his brow again.   
  
"Is that so?" Daario says, looking to both Tyrion, and then Jon. "Wouldn't the Queen’s Hand and her husband like to see her happy?"  
  
"I think I can safely speak for His Grace when I say that we both would like nothing more than to see our Queen happy," says Tyrion.  
  
Everyone looks to Jon. 

"Aye," is all he says.   
  
Dany turns back to Daario. "Happiness comes from ruling the seven kingdoms wisely and justly," she says.  
  
Daario raises one eyebrow at her, jauntily. Daenerys banishes all emotion from her face. But her gut, her groin, is stirring. It is impossible, to be this close to him--the scent of him--and not remember how his hands had felt on her, his lips grazing her breasts, his fingers combing through her hair in the mornings, after they’d made love, laughing at the tangles in her braids. _My dragon queen_, he had whispered, when she had climbed on top and ridden him like a stallion. Dany shifts in her seat, breathing in slowly.  
  
"Do you know, Your Grace," Daario says, turning to Jon, "That I was there when thousands of liberated slaves from Yunkai--men, women, children--lifted her above them and called her _Mhysa._ Mother. Because she was the one who liberated them."  
  
Jon looks at Dany. "Aye," he says. "I've heard the stories. Her Grace is beloved among the people in the free cities of Dragon’s Bay.”  
  
Daenerys frowns internally at this. She needs Jon Snow to tell her the truth, not to flatter her. She has droves of people willing to flatter her, she always has, and even more so now that she is Queen. She needs Jon to give her an honest account, not to feed her the same old lines about peasants in the streets toasting to her name. For all his inelegance in their private moments, he has always shown himself to be bold when it comes to telling her the truth about diplomatic affairs. Something, she knows, she will find in few others.  
  
"You've heard then, of how I killed the Meereenese champion--"  
  
"Yes," Daenerys interrupts. "Right before you took out your cock and relieved yourself upon a corpse."  
  
Tyrion sputters on his wine. It is incredibly satisfying to surprise him so. She feels Jon looking at her, and does not return the look, afraid of what might reveal itself in her eyes. She is irked, and she is enjoying the banter, both. Daario's eyes glitter.  
  
"I'm grateful for the service you provided to our Queen, before I knew her," Jon says. Dany's composure is well-practiced, but this threatens it. Does he intend this statement to hold such ambiguity, such room for lewd interpretation? Daenerys keeps her gaze straight ahead.  
  
Daario inclines his head in polite acknowledgement. "I am honored, your Grace. Fighting is one of my two talents."  
  
Suddenly Daenerys is angry. Daario Naharis is too forward by far. He shows both her and her husband too little respect. She stands. Jon and Tyrion rise, one to each side.  
  
"I'm afraid I grow weary," she says. "Of the idle chatter of men. "  
  
She turns and leaves the great hall.  
  
  
  
In their chambers, Daenerys and Jon undress and don their nightclothes. They do not look at one another, nor do they speak. Dany glances up, just once, to see Jon as he unbinds his hair, watches it fall free about his shoulders, his back in the firelight, riven with scars. She desires to go to him and kiss them, each scar, every last one. She has not been able to linger over his flesh, to revel in it, as she would like. She wonders if perhaps she would find more scars than flesh. She looks away. Missandei comes to comb out her hair.  
  
"I'll wait in my chambers," Jon says.  
  
"No. Stay," Dany says. She realizes she is afraid of what she might do.

Jon nods his acquiesce. He looks neither grateful nor inconvenienced, just accepts her will neutrally. Ghost is not here tonight, her husband’s dire wolf is a wild thing, and comes and goes at his own will. Like Drogon. From the mirror, Dany watches Jon’s reflection, clothed in braies and a loose white undershirt, slide into her bed. Their bed. He arranges himself beneath the covers, and leans back on a pillow, that mane of his wild around his face. His shirt is untied at the neck, revealing a small hint of his chest. He looks up and their eyes meet in the mirror. Dany holds his gaze. Hoping.  
  
Jon shifts his eyes away. Inside of Dany, something flickers and dies.  
  
He is a beautiful man. Breathtakingly so. She is a beautiful woman. There has to be some way she can reach him. There has to be a way in.   
  
Her blood is that of the dragon. It has begun to run too hot.  
  
It yearns for release.  


***

Jon feels something shift in the room. It happens when Missandei is still brushing out Her Grace’s hair. She is watching Jon in her mirror, and Jon looks away, and that is when the sinuous energy enters, slides in on its belly like a snake. Winds itself around his legs like tentacles. Squeezing. Jon shuts his eyes and tries to breathe deeply. His duty for the day is almost done.

You _will _perform your duty, he tells himself, even as his body moves involuntarily, curls itself away. He rolls onto his side, turning his back on Her Grace, knees and elbows drawing toward one another. He thinks of those weeks ago, when he turned on her, like a wolf. He had lost himself, and now, he fears, a similar thing has happened to her. A desire has entered Her Grace that he recognizes, one that clutches at him with claws, and he knows he ought to get up and leave. Because to him, this desire only means danger. But he hears Tyrion’s voice in his head, admonishing him to do better. He hears himself, promising Tyrion he would.

He sees himself, crouching over her, baring his teeth. _Gods_. How could he have done that to her, when she was feeling so vulnerable? Doesn’t he then owe her this thing that is about to happen?

The heavy door bangs as Missandei leaves the room.

“Jon.”

She is upon him even as she speaks the world, kneeling on the bed, pulling his shoulder, and he turns, lets himself be pulled onto his back, so that he might look upon her. What he sees stills the deepest part of him. Her eyes are too focused, too sharp. Something has come unleashed within her.

She _wants_ him, and she has decided she will have what she wants.

A survival instinct takes over in Jon and his body decides not to fight. Fighting puts his Queen in danger, he will not do that. His mind decides to slip away, recede, as if hiding behind a veil.

“Jon?”

Out of necessity, he surrenders.

Gives a tiny nod of acquiesce.

Her Grace puts her mouth on his and claims him, and Jon is distantly aware of himself kissing her back, performing greater passion than he has in some time. There is no good to come from fighting this thing that is in the room with him, he knows that, has been in too many rooms with this before, and so Jon gives himself over to it. Not because he wants to, but because he needs to survive, and this is the way, sometimes. Tonight.

The Queen is like a hearth fire that has suddenly swept throughout a room, a blaze just beyond the point of control. She takes the bottom of his shirt and pulls it off, over his head, Jon moving to allow her. Then she kisses him hard, flicking her tongue into his mouth, and he lets his body take over and entwines his own tongue with hers, letting her have him. _Letting Ramsay have him. Letting Ramsay’s men have him. _

_Letting Euron have him._

_Taking Theon._

He isn’t proud of it. He would rather fight. This is how survival is sometimes done.

Her Grace reaches her hand under the waist of his braies and feels for his member. She takes it, and Jon grimaces, embarrassed, because he isn’t hard. She pulls up, away from him, the confusion clear on her face, a question there, before determinedly moving her mouth down, toward his nipples. She takes one in her mouth and sucks at it, and Jon gasps because it is painful, and at the same time, blood hurries into his cock, and he goes rigid.

_He hates this._

His body responds this way, sometimes, both to pleasure and to pain. Not to severe pain—when Euron would push Jon to his knees and force into him, Jon knows he would scream, and it was nothing like arousal. It wakes him, sometimes, in the night. The memory of the sound of his own agony.

But these little tweaks and nips—teeth grazing his lip, snagging at his tender thigh—more often than not bring life to his member, to Jon’s dismay. To too many cruel men’s former delight. Ramsay used to work him like a bow, once he had discovered the trick. Experimenting to see just how much pain Jon could take before his cock would wilt again, dancing up to Jon’s line of overwhelm, and then away from it, for hours and hours, Jon hanging limply by ropes cutting into his wrists, his cheeks flush with desire and shame, unable to control the responses of his own body.

Now Her Grace is encouraged—and why shouldn’t she be?—by this response of his, and nabs at his other nipple with her teeth. He groans in pain, and his cock surges harder. It is too much. Shame burns his cheeks and he throws his arm over his eyes, trying to hide. He doesn’t blame her. She has tried for months to get a sensual reaction from him, he knows. Has been patient, all considered, and enduring. Now finally he gives her one. He can’t expect her not to act on it.

“I’m going to sheathe you, Jon,” Her Grace says. “All right?” Not opening his eyes, face still obscured by his arm, Jon nods silently. He is the husband of the Queen and the only task he has that matters is the one of getting her with child. He agreed to this marriage, knowing what would be asked of him. He will not say no. Her Grace tugs at his braies, gently guiding them down over his hips, pulling them down to his ankles, where he kicks them off. He is fully exposed to her now, root to stem. He can feel how ready she is, the damp heat of her sex against his skin. With the hand that is not covering his face he claws at the furs and waits for it to be over.

The Queen positions herself, takes his cock in one hand, and guides him into her, lowering herself carefully onto him until she is fully seated. When she begins to ride him, Jon feels his member soften. It is a humiliation so great that his eyes prick with tears. Jon holds them back. Then, suddenly, Her Grace grabs his nipple and Jon flinches, and she squeezes it between two fingers until the pain is enough to make Jon hiss, and make him harden again. She thinks she has understood, learned something about him, and continues to work him there as she rides him. And she has learned something about him, after all. She has just misunderstood it.

_What is wrong with him? _He doesn’t know if his body was responsive in this way before he fell into Euron’s hands, or if it’s something Euron _put in him_. Ygritte had kissed him there, sometimes, but only gently, so he doesn’t know. A woman had discovered this about him, once, and used it to bring him to the brink of orgasm only to then back away and let him suffer, inflamed, desperate for release and forbidden to have it, until he would finally soften, and then repeat the cycle over and over again, for hours. Driving Jon insane. When she had made him put his mouth on her, between her legs, he had fantasized about letting the wolf come into him, biting off her little stone. Only the memory of Euron flaying an innocent man before Jon’s eyes had stopped him.

She never had let him climax, that woman. Euron had found him in the morning, hands tied to a bed post, naked, rock hard and beside himself with it. And Euron had flipped Jon over, and taken him, and in doing so, let Jon rut into the bed furs, until he had wept with the shame, and found release.

Flooded by the memory of his debasement, Jon moans. Her Grace reaches for his other nipple with her free hand, and tweaks him, hard, and his cock responds. Jon lets out a little whimper. She caresses and grazes and pinches him there, Jon jerking with the sensation, his hips shuddering up into hers, until he is nearly mad with lust, and with humiliation, and loathing himself for it. All of it.

He despises this part of him. He would give anything to not be like this, not to be the way he is. And yet, despite his loathing, he is needier every second. It is agony. And perhaps he deserves this agony, this degradation, for the things he has done. The way he lies to Her Grace.

_Do better_, says Tyrion. _I will_, says Jon.

He thrusts up into Her Grace, his body growing urgent, and lets out a moan that is tortured with frustration, and self-loathing, and need. The Queen squeezes him, and it feels good, and right on the heels of that pleasure is a wave of humiliation so great it threatens to drown him, and he is trembling now, with disgust for himself, and with passion. He is utterly undone.

He begins to cry.

The Queen notices. “Are you all right?” she asks. Jon doesn’t answer. This must end. Dragging his arm away from his face, he grabs her by the hips with both hands, fingers pressing into pale, perfect flesh, and he drives himself upward. She gasps. He does it again, harder, his back arching into her. Her Grace is thrust forward by the momentum, but holds her balance, rides him, careful not to steady herself on his chest, not to put weight there. Jon clutches her to him and pounds up into her savagely, the strength of his hips enough to bounce her, like she is trotting on a horse. He sees her face change, sees confusion there, and the slightest flinch of pain, and he knows he is hurting her, a little, and is too angry to care. Then, at last, teeth clenched together to hold back his cries, he is spending, releasing into her in hot spasms, hips fluttering, with tears on his face, and rage in his throat.

As he finishes, Her Grace shuts her eyes, grazing her fingertips along his stomach—avoiding the place where Ramsay branded him, as if that is what matters. He forces himself still beneath her, even though his body is screaming at him to get up, to rage, to strike at something with a sword. Makes himself wait there beneath her because none of this is her fault, and she mustn’t know. Hoping he hasn't hurt her beyond that little twinge of pain he caught on her face. He waits as long as he can, shaking now, his body quivering with the urge to fight. He wants to throw her off of him. Wants to tell her never to do that again. _Don’t touch me_ is not something the husband of the Queen can say to his wife and monarch.

And it would hurt her. Even with rage washing over him, he does not want to hurt her.

Then the Queen opens her eyes and she is smiling at him, however hesitantly, and Jon cannot contain himself a moment longer. Abruptly he sits up, pushing her back, and she slides off of him. Jon gets out of the bed and stalks to the window. He throws open the shutters and the glass, letting in the cold. Snowflakes swirl into the room, born on a fierce winter wind. He stands there for a long moment, breathing in the fresh air, closing his eyes and letting it hit his face. He can feel his hands, clenched in two fists.

“Jon?” Her Grace says at last. Her voice is uncharacteristically small. He turns to her. He is about to offer, as he always offers, to pleasure her, and then he hears Tyrion's words—_you don’t offer a woman an orgasm, you give her one_—and he knows he cannot give her one, not tonight. So instead he closes the shutter, and walks back to the bed where Her Grace is sitting with a fur drawn protectively up around her chin. She feels something is wrong, but she doesn’t know what, and this breaks him.

“Gods, Your Grace, I—“ What? What is he to say? He pulls his braies back on, and then his shirt—doesn’t want to see his own anatomy, doesn’t want to think about the part of him that she made such excellent use of tonight, as others have before, and slides beneath the covers.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

On her face is pure bewilderment. “What are you sorry for?”

He considers what it might be like to take her up in his arms, right now, when she is awake and not whimpering in some fearful dream unknown to him. But he can’t do it. It is everything he can do not to push her away. Not to flee from the room.

“It’s just that I’m over tired. With your bidding, I believe I should sleep.”

“Of course,” Daenerys says, after a pause. Jon rolls over and curls back into himself, knees up, shoulders and elbows down. He shuts his eyes. He knows he will not sleep, not for hours.

Next to him, Her Grace doesn’t either.

  
* * *  
  
When Daenerys wakes next to Jon, sees his form there next to her, silent, unmoving, she feels the beginning of something like fear. She doesn’t understand what happened the night before, she only knows something came over her, and then something else seemed to come over Jon.

She watches him for a moment. He is turned from her, his back curved about himself, rising and falling with his breath. His black curls splay on the pillow, the scent of him is rich, and very male. With a cold clarity, she realizes she doesn’t know who this person is. She only knows that there are depths within him—wide, wild depths—that he will not share with her. Even that evening two moons ago, when he pounced on her, looking for all the world like a wolf—_he simply grew over passionate for you, Your Grace, perhaps you ought to _encourage_ it,_ Tyrion had said--she didn’t fear he would hurt her. But now, she isn’t sure. Last night, there had been something dangerous in the room with them—and she hadn’t spotted it until it was too late. Jon had seemed to be enjoying it—his body responding to her more than it ever had in the past. And yet he kept his hand over his eyes and had held himself still as a statue before suddenly shifting, pounding into her fiercely, hitting spots inside her that had made her gasp with discomfort. Sometimes, from that angle, a man could drive in too deep. Jon had. Then he had spent into her and she had looked down at him, and seen a stranger staring back up at her. A stranger with anger in his eyes.

Daenerys takes a deep breath and places her hands over her belly. _Please_, she thinks, praying silently to any god who will listen. _Let it take this time._ A midwife has told her she would have better luck were she to climax each time, that the spasms draw a man’s seed into the womb, but Dany can’t bring herself to let him do what he offers, because he offers so reluctantly. He tries very hard to sound sincere, and she appreciates that, but he isn’t. She has bled now six times since the wedding night. It isn’t unusual, the midwife says, until it has taken over a year, but Dany can feel the entire castle holding its breath.

She is starting to wonder if perhaps the witch was right.

She rises from the bed—and Jon sleeps. This is the first time she has ever risen without him stirring to life beside her, without the feeling that he has been lying there for some time, waiting for her to wake. It gives her pause. A little shiver creeps up her back as it occurs to her that he could merely be pretending to sleep. But no, she tells herself. That isn’t like him.

But then, she realizes, she has no idea what is like him.

She lets him lie. Ties on a robe and opens the shutter for light. Below her is the sleeping, snowy sprawl of Queen’s Landing. All it’s millions of inhabitants depending on her. Sometimes, she wishes there was more country to conquer. Other kingdoms. Conquering she understood. Conquering is thrilling. Ruling is less so. Less stirring to the blood. There are days when the thought of seeing petitioners makes her want to weep with boredom. Creating new laws, ones that are more just, she enjoys better. Arguing with Tyrion over them, she does not.

And then there is the matter of Meereen.

Daario had been a simpler man to understand than Jon Snow. From the start, he had seemed only to want to woo her, and had been willing to kill men and to conquer cities to do it. She wasn’t certain if he believed in her, or if he lusted for her, or if perhaps he was motivated by some mixture of both—but it hadn’t mattered. It had been lovely to fall into bed with a man who so clearly wanted it. Wanted _her._ To have the world’s troubles end at the bed, not begin at them.

Casting a glance back at Jon, Dany sighs, and slips from the room. There is no point waking him. She doesn’t really want to see which version of Jon she will get today. Missandei can help her bathe and braid her hair in her own chambers. Let Jon sleep. And when he wakes, let him decide who he will be, before he comes to her.

“What do you think of him?” she asks Missandei, as her friend braids her hair. “My husband?”

“Has something happened again, Your—Daenerys?”

Dany has of late implored Missandei to call her by her name when they are alone together. Sometimes, Missandei manages.

“He participated in the act,” Dany says. “That’s something.”

She hears the bitterness in her own voice, and doesn’t like it. She does not want to become a bitter woman. “It’s just that he confounds me so,” she adds with a sigh.

Missandei nods. “He is capable of great kindness. The children and young men and women he drills with respect him and are very fond of him, I’m told. He always supports you, at council. And yet I know that when he comes to you at night, he seems almost a different person. Have you asked him, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Dany says. “He always gives the same answer. War.”

“Perhaps it is true, then. His Grace seems an honest man. Men can returned changed, after battles. Grey Worm and I have discussed it, even. Some men continue to do horrible things even when the battle is over. Some of the stories are terrible.”

Dany asks herself if she can accept this. She can accept that war has changed him. But would war make her abhorrent to him?

“You must never repeat what I’m about to tell you,” she says to Missandei. She turns to look her friend in the eye. “I know the position I’ve chosen. A Queen must marry for political gain. Not for love. Never for love. Through Jon, I have secured the North. With luck, soon I will secure an heir. Jon tries to give me that, and that’s all that matters.” She pauses, hearing the emotion in her own voice. Her eyes prick with tears that she blinks to keep back. “But I had so hoped that I might have more. From the wars, I knew Jon was brave, and good. Strong. And handsome. Before the wedding, I thought how lucky I was. I felt certain that he and I could—“ Daenerys stops speaking. Tears overflow her eyes. Missandei leans forward and gathers her into a hug. Dany lets herself be rocked like a child, just for a moment, tears rolling silently down her face.

“Perhaps love with still come,” Missandei says eventually. “As it did with Khal Drogo. Remember? That took time.”

Daenerys shakes her head. Then she sits up, wipes at her eyes. Blinks the tears away. Missandei rises to get her a cold cloth to press to her face. “Well,” Dany says at last. “Let us see to my Queendom, as we can see to little else.”

Daario evades her the entire day. Daenerys finds herself distracted, looking for him as they break their fast at court, as she moves throughout the Keep, from council room to throne room to chambers. Jon doesn’t make it to breakfast, but arrives in time to take petitioners in the throne room, giving Dany a measuring look as he bids her good morning. As they hold audience, he sits at her side, yet he is far away. He seems not to be listening today, but on the occasion that Dany does turn to him for counsel, he always offers it, wisely and gravely, making it clear that he has missed not a word. Despite herself, she admires the patience he seems to have for these little matters. She stifles yawns. She thinks of Drogon, the wind in her hair.

In the afternoon, Daenerys sees to her correspondence while Jon drills the young ones in the practice yard. There is so very much correspondence to keep up with, ravens arrive daily from Dorne, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Reach. So many men, so many noble houses, to be kept appeased and in line. Tyrion sits next to her and advises her on diplomacy. Sometimes she listens to him. Often, she doesn’t.

She excuses herself early so that she may go observe him, at his work. Passing in the balcony, alone, without her guard, so that he will not notice her, Dany looks down upon Jon. He is in his armor, walking up and down between rows of boys and girls who are going through practiced motions of fencing. Jon pauses to speak in the ear of one, placing his hand on her elbow, lifting it. “Keep your power behind you, not beneath you,” he says. The Master of Arms observes from the side, deferring to the King. Jon seems calm, smiling even as one girl knocks another to the ground. The felled girl looks to Jon. “You’re alright,” he says. “Get your feet back under you.”

The girl does. In a moment, Jon ends the drill and chooses two to spar together alone in the ring, the other children circling around to watch. Jon has selected a boy and a girl, both appearing to be of similar age, although the girl is taller. Daenerys supposes she should know the names of these little lordlings and ladies. Another thing to learn.

“I’m not going to fight a girl,” the boy says, aghast at the thought.

Jon is measured, as always. “Why not?” he says evenly. “She’s going to fight you.”

At this, the young ones begin to beat their practice swords against their shields, spurring on the two in the center. One little girl raises her sword into the air.

“Brienne of Tarth!” she cries. Daenerys can see Jon’s smile.

“Tormund Giantsbane!” cries a little boy.

Then another girl, small with red hair, thrusts he sword into the air. “The Dragon Queen!” she cries.

Daenerys blinks at this. She had not expected it. Although she is Queen, none of the living have ever seen her fight with a sword—only Jorah saw that, and he is gone. There is no one to tell that tale. Riding a dragon into battle was a worthy deed, she knew, but not one she had expected to earn her the admiration of little swordswomen who would never have the chance to ride a dragon themselves.

“The Dragon Queen!” the girl in the center of the ring echoes, and then throws herself at the boy, forcing him to lift his sword to defend himself to keep from getting knocked onto the hard winter ground.

Jon watches closely as they spar. “Get your shield up!” he shouts, and Dany knows not at who, but both children raise their shields. “Next practice will be nothing but standing in the cold holding your shields up if you don’t all start to remember,” he says. Suddenly the girls sword looses from her hand, flies across the yard, and falls. The boy pauses.

“What are you doing?” Jon says. “You haven’t taken her down.”

“She’s not armed!” the boy cries. He drops his shield, and the girl lunges at him, grabbing him around the waist, and taking him to the ground. The boy lands on his back with a hard grunt. The children watching beat their swords against their shields again. The girl climbs to her feet, standing over the boy triumphantly, and Jon crosses the ring and offers the boy a hand.

“You haven’t defeated your enemy just because they’ve lost their sword,” he says, pulling the boy up. “Don’t forget that. Well done, then,” he says, clapping the boy on the back. “And well done, you, Lady Eleanor,” he says to the girl, putting his arm on her shoulder. “You had your arm out too far from your body on a defense, that’s why he was able to disarm you. Better to duck those blows than defend them, if you can. Stay quick on your feet.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the girl says, breathless. Dany smiles. Then, as if he feels her gaze, Jon suddenly looks up at her, straight into her eyes. Dany keeps her smile on her face.

Jon nods at her, smiling briefly, and quickly looks away.

He appears at dinner, the Lord Commander in Meereen. Jon is sitting silently next to her. Tyrion is unusually quiet. Whenever Daenerys dares a glance at Daario, he is engaged in bright conversation with someone. His soldiers, but also the ladies of court. First he has made Lady Ashford smile and let out a small laugh. Next, Lady Blackfyre. Daenerys picks up her goblet and turns to Jon.  
  
"Both of us lived other lives, before we knew one another. And yet it occurs to me we know little of them." If it feels she knows so little of her husband, she thinks, she should try to remedy that.  
  
He looks at her warily. He is always wary. "I've heard tell of all your victories, Your Grace," he says. "Brave and noble achievements, to be sure."  
  
"I don't wish for you to flatter me, my lord."  
  
He frowns. "I don't intend to, Your Grace. I mean it earnestly. Tyrion has told me of how you freed the slaves of Yunkai and Meereen, how you burned the Khals who would have imprisoned you. How you escaped the warlocks of Qarth. All this, and more. You're like something out of the tales I heard as a boy. Except you're real."  
  
Dany softens at this. "Still," she says. "You must make every effort not to tell me pretty little flatteries. From you I need to know the truth. My shortcomings as a ruler. I'm certain there must be one or two."  
  
The left corner of Jon's mouth goes up in a faint smile, but then he beholds her gravely. "All right, Your Grace," he says. "I will."  
  
Daenerys nods at him. "Now tell me of your past, Jon Snow. I've seen your brave deeds against the army of the dead first hand, but I desire to hear of the time before we met."  
  
Jon stiffens. "There isn't much to tell," He says.

_Your scars says otherwise_, Dany thinks.

"I'm certain that isn't true," she says. "I've heard the broad strokes but I would know the details. Tell me of your achievements, my lord. Tell me of your past."

Jon looks away. A muscle in his throat twitches.

"I will if you command," he says.

Next to her, Tyrion lets out a sigh. Daenerys draws back. She realizes he has been leaning into him, smiling. Gods forgive her. She has been trying to flirt with him, and failing. Trying to draw him out. Trying to know him.

She wants to say _yes, I command_. To press him. She knows she can get anything she wants out of him, anything at all, simply by commanding. He is that sort of man, he will obey. He will do anything she tells him, out of his sense of honor. Because she is his queen. She raises her goblet to her lips instead, gazes out upon the room.

"I won't."

He nods stiffly, and doesn't turn his eyes back to her.

  
  
That night in their chambers Jon can't look at her.  
  
Rather than waiting to take her cues, as he usually does, Jon slips into his private chamber to disrobe. He is gone longer than seems necessary. After Missandei leaves her, Dany looks at herself in the mirror. Her face is lovely and young. Her silver hair sparkles like a star in the low light of the fire. Her breasts are small, but her body is strong. Daario Naharis used to delight in lifting them to his lips, one at a time, suckling them. _Did you suckle your dragons like this,_ he'd asked her, and hadn't balked when she'd answered honestly.  
  
At last, Jon enters. She sees him in her mirror, undressed and in a red robe. Unusual for him, to come to her so. His gaze is cast down.  
  
Rather than wait on the bed, she stands and goes to him. She slowly, carefully, places her hands on his waist, feeling the muscled solidity of him, even in his hips—hips which had thrust powerfully enough to lift her off her knees, the night before. "Husband," she whispers. She is trying, with this unknowable man. By all the gods, she is trying.  
  
He still looks down.  
  
Their lovemaking the night before has left her confounded, on unsteady ground. So tonight she is tremulous and uncertain. Moving slowly, as if he is a deer she hopes not to startle, Daenerys strokes her hands along the curve of his hips, carefully avoiding the X branded at the hollow there, and then slips her fingers inside the veed neck of his robe to run them along his chest, his pale skin, hairless, _like a dragon_. He draws in a shuddering breath and she glances up at his face. Eyes shut. She keeps going. She runs a finger along his nipple, and it hardens beneath her touch, as Jon draws in a ragged breath. Encouraged by this, Daenerys puts her hands on his hips and moves him toward her, toward their bed, together. He follows her touch, compliant.

“Are you alright?” she says. He nods.

When they reach the end of the bed, Daenerys sits on it, and then, ever so gently, leans forward to plant a kiss on Jon's belly, above his belly button, but as low down as she can get without opening his robe. Trying to be respectful of his modesty. Last night she had torn his clothes off him like a wanton whore, and it had not seemed to please him. His muscles ripple like those of a horse beneath her hands and she moves her lips up, grazing them along his skin, and kisses the center of his chest. Jon lets out a strangled little noise.

Daenerys takes it for pleasure and looks up. But what she sees there stops her cold.  
  
Jon's eyes are open now, but they are glazed, and far away. Empty. He isn't here with her. His body is here but Jon himself, the essence of him, isn't even in the room. It sends a chill down her spine. She knows this look, because she has worn it on her own face. It reminds her sharply of her first nights with Khal Drogo--the forbearance she would feel in her body, the resignation. The way she learned to float away, so that what was taking place was happening only to her body, not to her soul.  
  
Jon Snow wears that look now, here, with her.  
  
She pulls away from him abruptly. Draws her robe tightly around her, holding herself. "Go back to your chambers," she says. She is trying to remain calm, but she is shaken. "You may be dismissed." His eyes shift and enliven once again, concern deepening in his face.  
  
"Your Grace--I'm sorry. What did I--?"  
  
"You may go to your chambers, my lord," she repeats. Jon looks down at her, and Dany turns away, discouraging him from further words.

“Have I hurt you?” he says.

“I have given you a command,” Daenerys says.  
  
Jon looks at her, stunned, and then gives a small bow. "Of course, Your Grace," he says. "At your leave."

Without further ado, he turns and goes.

She doesn't think, she just moves. Daenerys throws a cloak around her shoulders and storms out the door. The guards posted there follow behind her, and she allows it, down through the many staircases and hallways of the Keep, until at last she reaches the stable yard, lit by moonlight. "Stay here," she orders them, and they obey.

She strides to the area that was once the inner courtyard. It is now a resting place for a dragon.

Drogon is there. His eyes are shut in sleep, but when she approaches him, he raises his head, issues a rumbling purr. Daenerys goes to him, puts her hands on his spines, petting him gently. Tries to quiet her mind.

She alchemized what Khal Drogo did to her, at the start of their marriage. Burnt it in the fire until it was clean, and gold. Until she made it something else.

Could she really have done to Jon what was once done to her? Made him feel how she had felt, as a girl? Like a collection of flesh and curves and openings for a man to pound into? She would not have thought it possible for a woman to do such things to a man, and yet the look on Jon's face had been unmistakable.

The emptiness in his eyes . . . .

Daenerys shudders, trying to push back the memories. But they surge forward unbidden, intertwining. Khal Drogo flipping her onto her stomach and pumping into her, painfully, feeling like she would split in two. She had been so very young. Jon Snow shuttering his eyes every time he brought his face near her skin. Drogo learning how to bring her pleasure with his hand. Stroking her belly gently as it began to swell with child. Viserys straddling her, slapping her face so hard her ears rang, twisting her nipples until she screamed. Staring at the ceiling as he caressed her breasts. Daario, naked, smiling, bringing her wine. Nuzzling gently into her breasts. Jon Snow's blank eyes when Dany kissed him. 

How could she not have seen it? Jon Snow is herself, when she was first married to Khal Drogo, at too young an age. He comes to her not out of desire, but out of duty. As she went to Drogo.

And yet, isn’t this the case in all marriages? A man and a woman must bed. Heirs must be produced. Jon had entered into the marriage knowing what was required, surely. He was no innocent maid. Hadn’t she tried to indulge him, the way Drogo had learned to indulge her? From the start, she has shown Jon sensitivities Drogo had not shown to her for a long time. And yet that didn’t change the fact that her husband was not her willing lover.

The thought was sickening. But surely that could not be counted as her fault. Daenerys had been sold into marriage as a teenage girl—as a child. Jon had agreed to a marriage as a grown man, experienced lover, and warrior. He had agreed to marry a queen. It wasn’t right, for him to make her feel as if she were some monster who only cared about defiling him. They were man and woman, they needed an heir, and she could not be blamed if he didn’t know that.

Yet that shadow in his eyes haunted her. His absence from himself. She remembers too well the pain of that. It tears through her body now, makes her want to scream. She tries to push that feeling, that memory, away. She hasn’t felt it rise up in her for years. Were matters between men and women always so convoluted and tortured?

_No. Not always._

Her body begins to quiver. The urge to run is overwhelming. Dany climbs atop Drogon, hugging onto his spines, her child’s strength and power comforting beneath her. Into a full-moon night, they fly.


	6. Somehow Through the Storm, I Couldn't Get to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys reaches a breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that earns the tags "Daenerys/Daario", and "infidelity.”
> 
> CW: flashbacks of violence and rape.

The next evening, Daario finds her after dinner.

Daenerys has sat through the affair without her husband at her side. After the events of the night before, she thought it kindest to grant Jon some relief from her presence. "You look weary, my lord," she had said, appearing in his chambers as he dressed for dinner. She had offered him a manservant, many times, to help him dress. He always refused. "Perhaps you ought to rest. No doubt Tyrion will accompany me tonight."

He had beheld her with a pained look in his eye, and there were depths there Dany couldn’t decipher, depths he wouldn’t share with her. "As you wish, Your Grace."

"Please don't mistake me," she said. "I wish for you to do whatever you like. I only noted that you seem weary, and wanted to assure you that of course I would understand should you need an evening to rest. A night_,_ even. I mean that in earnest.”

She had seen him understand her deeper meaning. He thinks himself a rough Northerner, but is better with subtleties than many men she has known. She supposes it is a product of his birth. A bastard would always have had to be able to measure others up, quickly, to deem who would treat him ill, and who would not. "Very well," he had said. "Thank you for your consideration, Your Grace."

She meant it. He thought she was punishing him, no doubt, but that wasn’t her intention. He was suffering. She didn’t wish to add to it. If Jon actually wished to spend the evening with her, let him, but let him say it. Let him speak to her openly, for once. About anything.

Daenerys had inclined her head, then allowed Tyrion and Missandei to escort her to dinner.

And perhaps she would be safe from that darkness in him for one night as well.

She expects Daario might approach her, with Jon’s absence, but he doesn't. He doesn't look at her. He sits at a table, laughing and drinking with a few Dothraki, the ladies of the court eyeing the table without subtlety. They are intrigued by this handsome former slave from Essos who cares naught for titles, yet moves confidently about the castle of the Queen. She watches as one smiles at him coquettishly, laughing, leaning in toward him. Confident in her abilities to charm. She remembers what that was like. Remembers how such interactions could be a power-exchange, yes—Daario coming to her when she was naked in the bath—but also a pleasure. 

She is in a mood to forget.

She has a third glass of wine.

After dinner, she slips into her chambers as quietly as possible, not wishing to disturb Jon in his room next door. Let him have one night’s reprieve from having to make love to her. A temporary mercy for them both. She and Missandei speak little as her friend brushes out her hair and helps her into a nightgown. Dany keeps an ear turned for Jon's chambers, but hears nothing. With a gentle squeeze to Dany's shoulders, Missandei leaves. Dany is sitting by the fire, deciding between bed and another glass of wine, when the door opens—

"Is everything all right?" she says to Missandei, turning.

But it is not Missandei standing there. It is Daario Naharis. Standing not in the door that is guarded, that leads out into the hall, nor the door to Jon’s chambers, but at a third door, one that leads to a corridor. One that she has been assured was locked and barred.

Dany rises at once, tightening her robes about herself, her breasts having been only loosely covered. She fixes upon him a gaze of pure wrath, but holds her tongue until she has strode close enough to him to whisper.

"You mistake me, Commander. You should not be here," she says, her voice sharp as steel, despite her lowered tones.

"And what is it, exactly, that I mistake?"

If only she could breathe fire herself. "I am your Queen, and I am married. You are my subject, and I am ordering you to go."

"You're not a queen. You're a Khaleesi. You're a conqueror."

_Khaleesi_. She tries not to think about it overmuch. How much more comfortably that word fit her than her current title does.

"I'll call for Grey Worm. I’ll call a hundred Dothraki. How did you even get in here?”

"This place has tamed you. Domesticated a wild dragon, leashed you like a pet lizard on a string."

"I believe a week in my dungeons should restore your sense. Though perhaps two will be necessary."

"But you can't conquer him, can you? Your northern husband. His blood is ice. Even a dragon can't melt it."

"I see I made no mistake leaving you in Meereen-"

"You've done nothing but make mistakes since you left me."

"My only mistake was inviting you back," Daenerys says, and then, impossible to say who leads it, they move toward each other at the same time, crashing together like a wave against the rocks. Daario takes Daenerys by the face and pulls her toward him, pressing his lips to hers. Then he wraps an arm around the back of her waist and draws her into him, hard. Daenerys puts her hands on his face and cradles him. Wildfire sweeps over her being. She drops her hands to his chest and begins fumbling with the laces of his shirt.

Daario kisses her in currents, his face pressing and receding, lapping at her like water at the shore. His hands roam down to her buttocks, cradling the curve of her there in both palms while she fumbles with his laces. She lets out a low moan, then pulls off of him abruptly, looks to the door to Jon's chambers. 

"He can't know," she says to Daario. “He mustn’t.”

"Would he even care?"

Daenerys' palm is a flash of fire in the night, ringing hard across his face. The sound seems to reverberate through the room. A red print already blooming on his skin, Daario looks stunned, and then drops to one knee, bowing his head.

"Forgive me, Khaleesi," he says. "I spoke out of turn."

"I am a Queen now."

"Forgive me, Your Grace."

"You will not speak his name to me," Daenerys commands. "You will not disparage him in my presence ever again, or you _will_ see the inside of my dungeons." Whatever else he might be, Jon is a good man. If she is going to betray him, she will not also allow him to be mocked. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Forgive me. I am yours to command."

"Your arakh is mine," she says.

"Yes," he says, daring to look up at her. Impulsively, Daenerys grabs a fistful of his hair, and then a little jolt of worry stops her—but no, she remembers. Daario will not flinch.

"And your mouth," she says, and pulls his head toward her. He nuzzles his face into her silk nightgown, in the place where it covers the parting between her legs, and then begins to kiss at the fabric that covers her there. Dany's eyes flutter, and then close, her mouth opening at the sensation. She is starving for touch. She has felt so very alone. Daario wraps his arms around her, his forearms pressing into her buttocks, and pushes his face into the space between her legs harder, inhaling her scent. 

"You smell of wood smoke. Burnt honey," he said. "You smell of the dragon."

A little cry escapes her lips before she can stifle it, and Daario stands, lifting her up into his arms as he does, so that now he holds her above him. She rakes her fingernails through his hair like claws, across his scalp, down his cheeks and across his shoulders. She wants to devour him.

"My queen is hungry," he says.

"Take off your clothes. Remove them, now."

"As you command," he says, his smile sly. He slides her down the length of his body as he returns her feet the floor, so that against her sex she feels the muscles of his chest, the hollow of his stomach, the thickness of his belt. Daenerys backs up to the bed and sits, to watch him. Daario is unabashed. He keeps his eyes on her as he pulls his shirt over his head, exposing the muscles of his chest. His skin is gold with sun, his chest and shoulders every bit as strong as when she saw them last. His scars paler stars set within it. Daenerys lifts a goblet from the bedside table and fills it from a flagon of wine. She leans back on one hand, raising the goblet to her lips with the other. 

"Go on," she says to Daario, raising an eyebrow.

It's incredibly stirring, the way he locks his eyes on hers as he does it. Blue eyes, bright, always sparkling like the sun across the water. So different from Drogo’s, or Jon's--

\--she pushes that thought away as Daario unties his breeches, and lets them drop. Then, eyes still on her, he removes his braies. Dany drinks in the sight of him greedily. Daario has always been a shameless lover, happy to let her devour him with her eyes, her mouth, her tongue. Every inch of him is pleasing. The firelight plays across the ridges and ripples of his muscles, his broad chest, his huge shoulders, his firm abdomen, etched with lines. The forward curve of his powerful thighs.

"Turn around," she says. He raises an eyebrow at her cheekily and obeys—_shameless,_ she remembers how sex can be shameless--and Daenerys lets out a little moan of want at the sight of his flanks, his arse, beautifully arched, and hard. Like a war horse.

"Come," she says weakly. Already she is pulsing, heady with want. Daario turns and strides toward her powerfully. He presses himself to her and she goes down willingly, landing on her back beneath him on the bed.

Their lovemaking is urgent. They are indeed starved. Daario pulls at the belt of her gown, pushing the fabric to the side, exposing her. For a moment that is as soft and as silent as snow, he sits back and takes in the sight of her body with reverence in his eyes. He places a hand on her thigh and runs it slowly all the way up the length of her, caressing it along her belly, her ribs, then lightly brushing it across her breast, gazing at her. As if she were something holy.

Then, they can wait no longer. Daario kisses her mouth, pulling at her tongue, devouring her there, and Dany digs her fingers into his shoulders, drawing him toward her. He moves down the length of her body, suckling at her nipples as his hands roam across her stomach, her legs. He kisses down her belly, digging his fingers into the meat of her thighs, squeezing hard. She groans. He kisses the top of her mound, the valley where her legs meet her groin, kisses all the way down her legs to the tops of her feet, and then begins to move back up her again. 

She loses patience. She sits up and flips him over, so that she now straddles him. His member is hard, and it brings a shock of tears to her eyes. He wants her. He so clearly wants her. As no one has, since she saw him last.

With this, Dany is overcome. She throws herself onto his body, lying down atop the length of him, her face on his chest, their sexes pressed together, their legs intertwined. She wraps her arms beneath his shoulders, clawing at him, and then she undulates her body against his, writhes atop him, feeling his skin pressed to every inch of her skin, from her cheeks to her toes. She grinds her sex into his member, and a satisfying, pleading moan escapes from his lips. She moves up and down like a wave, pressed to him, every inch. When she pushes up onto her palms, readying to put her mouth on his nipples, a tear falls from her eye and splashes onto his chest. 

Daario opens his eyes. He is concerned. "Khaleesi," he says softly. "What's happened to you?"

He thumbs at another tear as it rolls down her face. 

"Tell me you want me," she whispers.

"I want you, Daenerys. With all my heart and every inch of my body, I want you."

Daenerys stops his mouth then, with a kiss. Plunges her tongue into him. It's not enough. Not nearly enough. She wants all of him in her at once. She lets out a sound that is somewhere between a moan and a sob, trying to keep her voice quiet, and then lowers her mouth to suckle his nipple. He runs his hands along her back, cupping her buttocks, clearly enjoying himself. Enjoying her.

She sits up. Looking into his eyes as he gazes adoringly back up at her, she lifts her hips, grabs his cock to position it correctly, and sheathes him.

Daario keeps his eyes on hers. He places his hands on her flanks and holds her as she rides him. Daenerys bucks up and down, her breasts bouncing, stretching back to give him a view of her. The angle plunges him so deeply inside her that there is something close to pain. And still, it is not enough. She needs more touch, more contact.

"Fuck me," she whispers, and pulls off him. Rolls onto her back. Daario moves above her and then mounts her, quickly. She is wet and ready for him, aching. Bracing himself above her on his palms, he begins to thrust into her. She grabs his shoulders and pulls him down, so that she can feel every inch of him along her naked body. 

"Daenerys," he says. "I'm so sorry." His face is buried in the pillows, just above hers, so that he can keep the entire length of his body pressed into hers, as she has positioned him. But he cups her face as he moves inside her, lifting up for a moment to kiss her. He kisses her mouth, gently, then her cheeks, her eyelids. "You're so beautiful, my dragon. Someone should be worshipping you every night. Or letting you fuck them til they can't stand straight and their cock is sore."

More tears slip down her cheeks. Daario presses his forehead to hers for a moment, working himself inside of her, grinding his hips—she grabs his arse and digs in with her fingers. Then he moves his head away as the thrusts turn more forceful, and he is pounding into her, and it is delicious, and Dany realizes she can do anything she wants to him, anything at all, and nothing will shy him or startle him away. She bends her knees and curls her legs up around him, wrapping them around his back, and runs her hand into the split of his arse, teasing at him there, feeling the hard muscles ripple and flex as he thrusts into her. There is nowhere she cannot touch him. Then Daario is straining from head to toe. He rears his head back and pulls out of her, because he knows better, knows if he comes inside of her that will be the last time he ever sees her. She has always told him this. She takes his member in one hand and instinctively claps her other over his mouth just before he begins to cry out with the release of his pleasure. Remembering, suddenly, that Daario is loud as he crests. He bites back his moans, this time—here--but she presses her hand hard into his mouth anyway, because it feels good, and because no one must hear anything.

He forgets her for a moment as he always does with his peak, spending abundantly into her hand. There is a final thrust and then his seed is overflowing the grasp of her palm, spilling onto her thigh and the sheets beneath them. Daario shudders, and then collapses onto her. Dany reaches for a linen from her nightstand, wiping his seed onto it, and then wraps her arms and legs around him and hugs him to her, as hard as she can, Daario panting into her shoulder. She strokes the back of his head, cradling him. Men are so vulnerable and dear, in this moment right after they spend.

It is only a brief moment, however, before Daario stirs, kisses her in the hollow of her shoulder. "I was greedy," he says. “Will my Queen forgive me?”

“That depends upon the apology,” Daenerys says, smiling. Daario’s eyes twinkle at her. Pushing up away from her on one arm, he grazes her nipples with his fingers, lightly, and then moves his hand down between her legs. He presses his palm into her and begins to massage her there in small circles. Dany closes her eyes, but then opens them--she will not drift away, she will remain here. Right here, with him. She cants her hips up toward him and he puts his fingers on the shell over her pearl and strokes her.

It is delicious. It is at once both too much and not enough. Daenerys allows him to agitate her, her lips parted, little gasps escaping her. A fire begins to kindle in her thighs, the lowest part of her belly. As the wave intensifies, she bucks her hips into his hand, but her urge is building too strongly, and Daario’s hand is not enough. The pressure is not enough. Dany sits up, pushing him back onto the bed, and mounts him, straddling only one hard thigh. She rides it, rides him, grinding herself into him, into the hard muscle there. He keeps his thigh tensed for her, keeps the muscle flexed. Like this she is able to move herself exactly as she wants, her hips going around and around in circles, like a dance. Daario puts his hand on her lower back, pulls her toward him, encouraging her, and then the wave overtakes her and she buries her face into his shoulder, trying to drown the gasping mews of her own orgasm. It shudders through her, shockingly hard.

Spent, she collapses onto him, both of their bodies covered in sex, in sweat.

“I’ve been all over the world,” Daario mutters into her ear. “And I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you, my dragon.”

Dany lets him hold her. In a little while, she will have to ask Missandei to help her change the sheets, as she will not trust any other serving girl with this. She will have to tell Daario to go.

But not yet.

* * * 

Jon wakes to a knock on his outer door. He sits up, puts a robe on over his braies and undershirt, and goes to answer it.

“Your Grace,” Aeric, one of the guards, says, when Jon opens the door. “Your direwolf, sire.”

“Thank you, Aeric,” Jon says, standing back to let Ghost lope in. The guard gives a bow and Jon shuts the door. Ghost goes to the fire and lies down, his back to the warmth, while Jon opens the shutters to let in the light. He feels rested, having slept well, as he usually does when in his own quarters, but the weight of facing this day is heavy upon him, like most days. Every day is a trial to be endured. He relieves himself into the chamber pot, and stands at the window, gazing out. His mind wanders to Her Grace, in her room next door.

Jon isn’t sure if her dismissal of him the night before was meant as a punishment, or meant to give him relief, but either way, he thinks, it’s a problem. He let too large a crack show, and the cracks were large enough already, and he has no idea how to remedy it. He will apologize again, of course, but his near-nightly apologies wear thin.

Memories threaten to rush in—_I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_—and he pushes them away.

He pulls a hand down his face, rubbing, at his eyes. A knock at the door brings two chambermaids, one carrying a tray of things for tea and sage water, and the other to take his chamber pot.

“Shall I send a man to help you dress, Your Grace?” one of them asks. They are forever confounded by Jon’s refusal of help dressing and grooming in the mornings, undressing in the evenings.

“No thank you, Poppy,” he says. “Thank you for your help. Thank you Bess,” he says to the one carrying his chamber pot out the door. They each give a little curtsey and go.

Jon turns to his tea pot, lifting it to pour a cup, when, instead of the sound of the door closing behind him, he hears footsteps.

“Ah, Your Grace! Glad to find you awake at this early hour.”

Tyrion strides into his room, smiling, but Jon sees signs of wear on his face. The stress of being Her Grace’s hand, most like, combined with over indulgence in drink.

“I’ve told you to call me Jon,” he says. “We’ve known each other too long.”

“Jon, then,” the Hand says. “Has your evening of rest refreshed you?”

Jon eyes him warily. “Have you come to humiliate me? Or to call me out for failing to correct myself, as I told you I would?”

Tyrion quirks his head at him. “It would be highly disrespectful of me to do either, to the King,” he says. “No, I merely thought we might have a chat.”

“It’s early, for talking.”

“Indeed it is. And yet the life of a monarch is always so full that I thought I’d best catch you when I can. I’ve been thinking more about the last time we spoke privately, Your—Jon. And the things you shared with me. I’ve been watching Her Grace and it seems to me things are not much improved between the two of you. And then, it occurred to me that we do have certain resources at hand.”

“I wish you’d just speak plainly,” Jon says. If he was going to submit to such a conversation, he’d rather Tyrion just be blunt about it.

“As you wish,” Tyrion nods. “Did you know that there are, in the brothels of Queen’s Landing, certain women who specialize in sex as a healing art?”

At the word 'brothels', Jon inhales sharply, his eyes cutting to Tyrion. “What in the name of all the gods are you suggesting?” he says. His body is reacting in a way he realizes is not entirely proportionate to what Tyrion has just told him—heart racing, immediately beginning to shake from somewhere deep inside him. He can’t help it.

Tyrion’s eyes grow wide and when he speaks, his voice is low, and even, the way one addresses a spooked horse or a growling hound. “Forgive me if I have mis-stepped, Your Grace. I merely thought that a professional skilled in such things might be of aid to you in recovering from certain events.”

“And Her Grace?” Jon says angrily, the volume of his voice rising, unable to stop it. “Does she know you’re here, proposing this?”

“My aim was to first gauge your reaction to the idea,” Tyrion says. “And I see now that your reaction is not favourable.”

“Not favourable. You want to send me to a brothel,“ bile rises in his gorge at the very word. “To—what? Use one of those poor women in an attempt at fixing myself? As if two people who have been ill-used can somehow cancel that out by joining together? Are you mad?”

“It does sound rather mad, when you phrase it like that. I’m not speaking of a common brothel whore, Your Grace. There are women in certain establishments who are trained in sexuality as a sacred art—“

“Get out,” Jon says, rising to his feet. By some miracle, he is able to check himself from striding to the Hand, taking him by his collar, striking him with his fist.

Tyrion’s face is pale, and drawn. He bows low. “Please forgive me. I only thought to help.”

"Do you have any idea what it's like, inside those places?" Jon says, breathless with anger. _With memory._

Tyrion gives him a fearful, quizzical look. "I'm afraid I do, Your Grace. Though I'm not proud of it, it is common knowledge that I once frequented such establishments myself. Frequently. I always found them most pleasurable-"

"Do you have any idea what it's like for the women? And men, who work in them? Do you realize that many of them serve there against their own will?"

Something is thundering in Jon, something too expansive to contain, and Tyrion sees it. His face goes ashen.

"Your Grace?" he breathes.

Jon says nothing.

It is answer enough.

"Seven hells," Tyrion says. "Seven hells. The queen is going to execute me for certain. Jon, we musn't--_she can't know_."

“Tell me why I shouldn’t tell her--both that, and what you’ve just proposed to me. Because I feel the Queen ought to know what her Hand is arranging behind her back,” Jon growls.

“Because telling her about this would require telling her about the reason for it,” Tyrion says pointedly. “And we’ve already discussed what that would do. And Jon, if she were to learn of," Tyrion falters for words. "--the entirety of your past, I believe she truly might do something quite rash. Again, Your Grace, I am deeply sorry. I see that I made a gross miscalculation, but please believe me when I tell you, I was only trying to help you both. The suggestion was made to me by a friend who has suffered similar abuse. I never would have proceeded without Her Grace’s permission. I beg your forgiveness.”

“Get out, Tyrion. Don’t come and visit me alone again. Ever.”

Tyrion looks like he wants to say more, but decides not to try. Jon can see earnest regret in the man’s eyes, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. The Queen’s Hand bows again, and then leaves.

This is madness. He must tell the Queen. She needs to know all of it.

But, he thinks, as furious as the suggestion made him, did Tyrion not have her interest in mind? If Jon could somehow heal, it would help Her Grace. He takes a deep breath. Asks himself if it is possible, that only the desire to help her grace would move Tyrion to such profane suggestions.

He doesn’t realize he is still holding the tea cup until it flies from his hand and shatters against the stone wall.

Jon doesn’t see her Grace until the afternoon’s council meeting. He arrives before her and waits in a tense silence with Tyrion, Varys, and Grey Worm, until the queen at last arrives with Missandei. There is the matter of crops and grains to be discussed. Highgarden wishes to keep its own supplies and distribute them independently rather than sent them to the keep to be distributed by the crown. “Lady Mina is not so wise as Lady Olenna, which makes her both harder and easier to work with,” Tyrion says.

“A shame your brother killed Lady Olenna,” Her Grace says. “She was an ally of mine. And a favorite.”

“I agree with you there,” Tyrion says, and then keeps talking. As he goes on, Jon looks at Her Grace. There is a certain lift to her today. She carries herself a bit higher than he has become used to seeing. Her face seems—something. Flusher, fuller. Less worried. This is good, but also confusing. He hasn’t had a chance to set things right with his wife, as he’d like to. Perhaps a night away from him has done her good.

It’s a painful thought, but one, Jon knows, he must allow for.

She flicks her gaze to him, and then away. When council adjourns, she does not wait for him.

Jon is in his chambers, in the idle hours before dinner, studying a map of Essos, when there is a knock on the door that leads directly to the Queen’s room. When he opens it, she is standing there, in a gown of pale blue velvet, her hair loose around her shoulders, let down from her usual braids.

“Jon,” she says.

“Your Grace.”

“May I come in?”

“Of course,” he says, standing back to let her through. Ghost is lying in his usual spot by the fire, but he sits up and pants when she enters. The queen glances about his chambers, and then sits in a chair by the desk. Jon sits across from her, as it is clear, now, that she has something to address. He folds his hands in his lap and waits to hear what.

“Jon,” she says again. “In light of recent interactions between us, and in all the months before, I have come to realize that it might be easier for you if, for awhile, I were to relocate your chambers to something more private. I have not failed to notice your distress, and I feel that it would perhaps be kindest of me to grant you a temporary reprieve. From my attentions.”

Humiliation hits him first. A powerful wave. He looks at Her Grace, forcing himself to meet her eye, even as she speaks so plainly of his failures. Then he hears her words again in his mind, as if for a second time. Not just a reprieve, but a physical removal from her private chambers. Her Grace had been concerned that the servants should see them in the same bed together. Now she is not.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he hears what is beneath the words.

Jon looks at the ground, nodding, trying to let the realization wash over him, without taking him under. He feels his jaw working, clenching, as he struggles to maintain his composure despite this knowledge that is winding around him like tentacles, grabbing at his legs to pull him to the undertow, working their way into his belly and leaving him nauseous. His head moves quickly from one side to the other, just the once—shaking ‘no’, though he won’t say it, he feels it, every part of it protesting: _no_. He knows what has happened.

Her Grace has taken a lover.

He sniffs in hard through his nose. Losing himself, and then catching himself immediately. “Thank you for your consideration, Your Grace,” he says roughly. Subduing everything within him, all the emotion, as his time with Ramsay taught him. Euron had liked Jon fighting. But Ramsay had wanted him broken.

_Ramsay, "teaching him"—_there you go, bastard. So you _can _learn_—_

He shutters the memory from his mind, quickly. Anger is washing over him and he turns away from her, not wanting to unleash it upon her: his wife, his sovereign. Then he feels something he has not felt since the night he crouched over Her Grace, growling.

The tug of his wolf. How easy it would be now, to enter Ghost. Slip away.

_No._

Stubborn, he pushes the urge away.

Now he sees the reason for this morning’s charade. Tyrion had known, surely, and had caught him in his chambers before Jon could leave, or go to Her Grace—trying to stave off the damage. Trying to mitigate it somehow.

The Queen sits, watching him, a model of composure, with her hands folded in her lap. He doesn’t need to try to discover who Her Grace’s man is, because he knows.

His time with Euron taught him to be attuned. The slightest gesture, a breath, a twitch in a tiny muscle of the face, might give him information he needs to know. Might be the key to his survival. The blade of this heightened awareness has two edges--one kept him alive. Another is torturous. Jon is aware of every movement, every look, every minute adjustment in her face, her body. Sometimes she does nothing, yet Jon can feel the shift in her energy. It swirls around him, like smoke. Her anger makes his insides seem to shrink. Her frustration with him causes a knot deep within.  
  
And so that day, sitting next to her in the throne room as they received the envoy from Meereen, Jon had been aware of it all. The low-burning fire that lit in his wife's belly when this other man first entered the great hall. The way she watched him at the banquet feast until her hand trembled when she sipped her wine. The little hitches of breath, even the way she looked _away_ from Naharis--Jon missed nothing. Her Grace felt a physical pull to this man, who was, Jon surmised, despite what Tyrion had offered, her former lover. Her ache was so great he could nearly feel it in his own bones.

Could he really be surprised that the ache was consummated? Jon breathes in deeply.

Fine, then. If there cannot be love between them, let there at least not be resentment, he decides.

If he cannot be free of this shadow that hangs over him, at least let her be.

She looks up, meeting his eyes. Jon looks at his wife, holds her gaze for perhaps longer than he ever has, in all of their time together. He dreamed of her, before he met her. This dragon woman. She would appear to him in tumultuous dreams of smoke and ash, fire and wind. Standing naked in infernos, her hair streaming about her. The images would speed by, but he would see her, vanquishing forever the blue ice of the Night’s King in a roar of flame and great leathered wing. Before meeting her, Jon had dreamed of her for years.

A woman like that—less a woman, something more like a deity, a legend—is meant for more than what he’s given her. He wishes he could hold her. He knows how he might have, once. Remembers what it was like to go to a woman, to take her in his arms, to take her in his mouth, without all of these intrusions—without memories, without nausea, without his entire body reacting as if he were being abused anew.

What a thing it might have been, to have enjoyed this with Daenerys Targaryen. But he is not that person, now.

“I understand,” he says.

“It was done to me,” Her Grace says. “When I was a girl, and first married to Khal Drogo. It was done to me, what I’ve done to you. And I won’t continue to do it. And when we are together, and I see you remove yourself like that, it reminds me too much of when he would rape me,” she says.

He feels anger creeping into his gaze, a hardness, and so he looks away, to spare her from it. How can Jon begin to address this? To explain that what happened to him is different, that it’s not having to bed her that’s scarred him, he was already deeply scarred. Rage churns up in his body, for what she went through, at the hands of that man, the supposed love of her life, and how she thinks she’s the one hurting him when she isn’t, it isn’t her—it all overwhelms Jon.

“How old were you, when you were given to him?” Jon asks, because that is what is foremost in his mind. These things that were done to her.

“Thirteen,” she says.

Jon stands abruptly and goes to the window. He wants to pace, but he won’t come unleashed before her like that, not now. He remembers Theon pacing, sick with dread, when they were captives together, and how Jon had held himself still. He does that again, now. He thinks of Sansa, at 13. A child.

“That shouldn’t have been done to you,” he says, looking out over the rooftops, fingernails driving into his own palms, trying to hold on to himself.

“No. But it was the beginning of me becoming what I am. I took that and turned it into a crown.”

_And what have I done, with what happened to me?_ Jon thinks. Her Grace took her pain and built a Queendom. Jon took his and destroyed a marriage.

“I’m very sorry that I’ve given you cause to take such measures, Your Grace,” Jon says to the window, hearing how strained his voice sounds with his attempt to contain it. But he means it. There is more than that, of course—the anger he is holding firmly in place—but he also deeply means what he says.

“You shouldn't apologize. I’m not angry with you. I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” she says.

At this, Jon turns and meets her eyes. Says nothing. Her Grace is not a stupid woman, nor uncompassionate_. _She knows this will hurt him. So she believes she is hiding it from him; it will hurt him nonetheless. Yet how can he condemn her for it, he thinks, when it’s he that has driven her to it? He has withheld from her, emotionally and physically. He knows that. But gods, it takes his breath away, the hurt. He hadn't known he was still capable of feeling this sort of ache, after losing Ygritte, and everything that came after. He thinks of Tyrion’s words_. If she were a king, I would have procured her a mistress by now_. Perhaps he always should have expected this, when he’d agreed to marry a monarch.

And behind all that is something else. More shameful than the knowledge that his wife has bedded another man is the sensation of relief it brings him.

Jon will be left alone.

"Do you want to simply end the marriage, Your Grace? I'll understand, if you do. I haven't been--fit."

“No," she says. "I only intend to give you a rest. I’m sorry it has been so painful for you. And I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner.”

Jon nods. He believes her apology is genuine, though it needn’t be. None of it is her fault. “Very well,” he says. A certain exhaustion befalls him, weakens his muscles, quiets his mind.

_Very well._

“Tyrion will arrange to have your belongings moved,” Her Grace says neutrally. “If there are chambers you’d prefer, please let him know.”

Jon studies Her Grace. Her face is arranged into that perfect, impenetrable mask she wears so well. Letting nothing in, revealing nothing. She isn’t always thus.

Once, he thinks, she asked him to stand next to her on a balcony, overlooking the sea.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says to her, quietly. “Whatever you choose will be fine.”

Without waiting to be dismissed, Jon turns and strides from the room. It isn’t his, anymore

So this is the new reality, then.

Jon leaves the keep.

He wants to ride for the North. He doesn't belong here, never has. But he can’t, so he rides for the open fields that surround the city, beyond its walls. He can’t decide if this feels better, or worse, this thing the Queen has chosen, or if he has simply traded one hell for another. No longer will he have to face the nightly torture of bedding his wife. And yet now, nightly, he will know she is with him.

Dusk will begin to fall soon. He slows the horse in the field, and then something causes the horse to shy, he knows not what, and stop abruptly. Jon is caught unawares—his mind elsewhere, not paying attention to his mount as he should—and he is thrown forward sharply, his belly pressing into the pommel—

\--the feeling of it, that leather hard in the center of his gut, sends a memory ripping throughout his entire body. He tries to hold it back, but he can’t. It floods him. Sense memories, all of them living in his body. _The pommel pushing painfully into his gut—but not as painfully as the other man’s cock, pushing into him from behind, as Jon is forced over the saddle—bound, everything bound, his wrists behind him, his feet beneath him, the rope looped under the horse’s belly—the animal scent of the man behind him in the saddle, and then Jon’s scream as the man forces into him, ripping him open—and then the horse, cantering, Jon bouncing helplessly, every bounce thrusting this man in deeper—wind on his face—cold air—the voices of men around him, watching—Theon, somewhere—a gag in his mouth, biting down his own vomit—hours passing, until Jon is collapsed and half-conscious with pain and exhaustion and Ramsay is still IN him--_

With a roar, Jon dismounts his horse and draws Longclaw. He strides to a nearby tree, raising his sword, and lights into it, swinging at it as if it were the enemy. As if it were Ramsay, Euron, the Night’s King, the dead. Each blow hurts his arms, the waves of the impact reverberating in his own body, but the waves feel good, the shaking of them, like he is releasing something. He roars and beats at the tree until his throat his raw and his arms are sore, until at last he collapses, onto the ground, panting, exhausted, quivering. He sits there for a long while and lets everything settle. As darkness grows around him, his body stops shaking, and the exhaustion leaves him feeling emptied of some small part of the weight he was carrying.

And then, exhausted and undone, without meaning to, he slips into his wolf. For a time there is nothing but: wind, ice, snow. The scent of rabbit, scent of fox, scent of man.

On four strong legs, he runs. For a long while, over open fields, there is only this: a body that remembers nothing, holds nothing, except strength and air and instinct.

When he comes back into his body, there is immediate pain. So much pain stored inside this human form. He breathes in, curled on his side on the ground, a fur beneath him to protect him from the snow, and shudders out a breath. It hurts everywhere, every place inside him is screaming, in agony and shame and anger, and then the mind does some trick, works a magic. Closes itself to the pain, like light disappearing with the close of a door. 

Ghost is gone now, out somewhere in the wood, and Jon is alone.

He was able to survive the things he survived mostly because his body refused to let him die, but the fact that he wasn't driven insane by them was because he stayed focused—on the battle against the dead. What Euron and Ramsay did to him, torturous as it was, mattered little in light of the threat to humanity’s very existence. This, after all, is not so different. What matters here is not himself, but the Queendom, the realm. And what’s good for Her Grace is good for the realm.

He can tolerate it, he decides. In light of what it means he must not tolerate anymore.

With that, Jon is able to rise, and mount his horse. The animal shies and he hushes her, patting her neck, stroking her there.

Then he rides back to the Keep.

Her Grace is subtle. He expected this. Has known she would not be cruel.

She arrives to let him escort her to dinner. Comes to his new chambers, his few personal belongings already having been moved in. These quarters are larger than the one that adjoined her own and she has filled them with fineries. Jon sits by the fire in his formal wear and waits to see if she will come. She does. There is a knock on the door, and when Jon bids enter, she is there. Just her.

“My Lord,” she says.

“Your Grace.”

Her eyes are kinder on him than they have been in some time. He knows that, despite her strength, she is not unkind. He would not have thought her capable of this, but too well he knows that most men and women are capable of anything, under the right circumstances. And he has handed her those.

“I hope you find them suitable,” she says. Jon nods. He offers her his arm. With a lingering look at his face, she takes it, and he escorts her through the Keep. She doesn’t speak, which is a mercy, because it is difficult enough for Jon just to be with her now, at her side. The weight of the knowledge he has presses into him. 

_And yet tonight_, he thinks. He shall sleep in peace.

Her Grace doesn’t speak to her lover during dinner. Doesn’t even look at him. She speaks to Tyrion and Missandei and allows Jon to keep his silence. Doesn’t try to draw him out. Her purpose in all of this, he knows, is not to humiliate him. He has tried to do better, and then failed, and in doing so, has left her shattered. He knows this.

Still, he cannot help but seek him out. Daario Naharis. He is at a table with some Dothraki, who tend to drink loudly and boisterously every night. Her Grace’s court is like nothing Westeros has seen, he knows. Rather than the mannered affairs that he grew up watching from far back table in Winterfell, Her Grace’s court is made up of Dothraki men and women, former slaves who sit right along side with the lords and ladies of the great houses.

And Naharis seems natural in it. Jon watches him as he speaks to the horse riders in their tongue, as they call laugh, raising their cups. Naharis drinks with them, cup for cup. Jon glances at his goblet of water. If he’s going to start drinking again, now seems a better time than any. But that desire itself is what drives him to keep drink away. He won’t ever forget what Tormund did for him. He never wants to be dependent on something again.

He takes his eyes away from Naharis and looks at Her Grace. Catches her smiling at something Missandei has said. She is beaming. She is beautiful. He realizes that, for months, her face at dinner has been drawn and stiff.

With a sigh, he turns away.

After dinner he takes her back to her chambers. “Thank you, My Lord,” she says.

“Goodnight, Your Grace,” Jon says.

Back in his room, Ghost is still gone. Jon undresses and readies for sleep alone.

_Do I wish I was with her?_ He asks himself.

He finds he does not.


	7. And My Body Was Bruised, and I Was Set Alight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all. I see you. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

A knock at the inner door, the secret one. She opens it.

“Don’t speak to me,” she says. She doesn’t want that sort of intimacy with this man. It feels like too deep of a betrayal.

“As my Queen commands,” he says, and then he bends and wraps both his arms around her and lifts her from behind, his forearms pressing into her buttocks, and she leans her head down and kisses him deeply as he walks her to the bed, throws her down on it. Standing over her, he begins to strip, moving quickly, watching her as she lays there waiting for him, and already there is a tugging in Dany’s groin, waiting for him, a pulsing there that grows and grows. She is so hungry for him, starving, for this man who wants her, and whom she wants. She is still in her dress, because she has been pretending to herself that this was not going to happen again, but the instant Daario is naked, she rolls over onto her belly, props herself up on her forearms.

“Unlace me,” she says, enjoying, a little bit, a thrill of submission. Rather than obey her, Daario grabs the bottom of her dress and runs his hands up the backs of her legs and thighs, pushing the dress up with it, and the chemise underneath, exposing Dany’s backside. It feels vulnerable, and strange, to be exposed so, and then Daario slides his hand all the way up, and begins to stroke her there, against her opening.

Dany sighs and raises her hips, allowing him access to her pearl, and then moans when Daario caresses it, obligingly, kneeling on the bed behind her. Then, shocking her, he grabs her by her hips and jerks her up, toward him, so that she is on her hands and knees before him. Uncertain how she felt about this, she turns and looks at him over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow at him. He says nothing, only raises his own eyebrows back, and she remembers she has ordered him not to speak. Deciding that his forced silence makes up for her vulnerability here, she turns her head forward again and thrusts her hips back into him, riding his hand. He keeps his hand there, stroking her, letting her work herself against him, and with his other hand he caresses her rump, rubbing it with an open palm, squeezing his fingers into it.

She thrusts back into him, grinding against him there, until her need has built too strongly, and the pressure is not enough. She can’t crest like this. Suddenly she sits up and turns to him, takes his face in one hand, squeezing his cheeks. “Unlace me or I’ll call my guard,” she says. Daario smiles, and nods, and she turns to again offer him access to her back.

This time he does not disobey, but begins immediately to work at the laces there, until her dress is loosed enough for him to pull it and the chemise off of her, over her shoulders. She raises her arms to allow him to strip her, and then she looks back at him, over her shoulder.

“Lie down,” she commands. Daario nods again. Running his hand once more along her rump, he lies on his back on the bed, and then crosses his arms together at the wrists and raises them above his head, as if they were tied to the bed there. A show of submission.

She likes this more.

She surveys his body, stretched out before her in the fire light. The hard muscles of his chest and abdomen, his thighs like rocks, his skin golden. His scars paler lines along it. And his cock, hard already although she hasn’t touched it, springing forth from his light brown curls. Daario lies there, submitting to her gaze, unashamed as her eyes roam over him. Not just unashamed—he rather likes it, enjoys being admired by her thusly, she can tell.

Naked before him now, she straddles him, and then crawls up the length of him, his eyes watching her, until she reaches his neck. Then she rises to her knees, and a thrill goes over her whole body as she lowers herself down to his face. He raises his head and kisses her there, obediently, between her legs.

Dany closes her eyes and shudders, leaning forward, bracing herself against the headrest. Daario kisses her there gently, pulling at her lower lips with his own, and she hears herself let out a low, animalistic groan. She lifts off him, suddenly, and slides herself back down the length of him. It is too much, somehow—too arousing, too vulnerable—too intimate.

His cock is so hard it practically surges, but she ignores it. She straddles his thigh again and rides herself to orgasm. Daario raises his hands as if to cradle her hips, but she pushes them back, leans forward, and pins him there beneath her.

The orgasm builds and then explodes. She puts her own hand over her mouth for a moment, to quiet herself, and then remembers. Drops her hand in her peaking. Lets herself cry out. It rips through her and leaves her feeling open, and then she is crying. The tears begin to fall, rising up in her and overflowing with her crest, before she can stop them, making their own sort of climax. Tears fall from her eyes and splash onto Daario’s chest, beneath her. They are hard tears, heavy ones. She heaves a sob, and Daario sits up, and takes her in his arms, and pulls her down toward him, toward his chest. He cradles her there, holding her head to him as she cries.

“Khaleesi,” he mutters low, soothingly.

She should not be doing this, she thinks. Gods help her, she should not. But inside her has grown this empty ache, this darkness. A black void riven into her by rape, one that grows when she is with Jon—when she sees his eyes go equally black, when she sees him melt away from her, knowing she is the cause. It rips at her insides. Rips her guts out and she wants to scream, or cry, but this, with Daario—his body, his desire, his unabashed appreciation of her—it fills that void up with something else. And the fact of that seems so unfair. She suddenly wants to hit him.

So she does. She sits up and smacks a fist into his arm, into the hard muscle there. He lets her. Just watches her, with sad eyes. She does it again, trying to draw a reaction out of him. He sits up.

“You want to hit something, my dragon?” he says gently. “Go on, then. You are my queen. Do with me as you wish.”

Dany remembers he and Jorah coming to rescue her from Vaes Dothrak, and how she had silenced them, rescued herself. What has happened to her? That girl who burned the khals seems very far away. She wants to build a fire and walk into it anew, see what burns away, come out clean.

How pathetic she must seem to Daario, now. Mewling before him, like a babe.

“I wish for you to leave,” she says.

Daario raises one eyebrow at her, jaunty, as if he doesn’t believe this. She can see his member is hard, but she doesn’t care. She wants to let him hold her, but she has shown too much of herself, tonight. Too much for a former lover to see.

She thinks of Jon, then. How her husband might tolerate this side of her, her darkness. Her brokenness. He didn't cause it, but he contributed to it, unknowingly. The thought is painful.

“Now,” she says.

Daario draws in breath, and nods at her solemnly, his eyes on hers. “As my Queen commands,” he says, and his voice is not teasing, nor bitter—it is reverent, respectful, and Dany remembers, for a moment, how hard Daario fought for her before she abandoned him. She watches as he gathers his clothes from the floor, shrugging into pants and a shirt, carrying the rest to the door. When he reaches it he stops and turns to bow at her and she realizes she does not have it in her to send another man away in such brittle tension, she cannot bear it.

“Daario,” she says.

“Your Grace?”

“You’ll come back, in the morning.”

Daario smiles. “As you command, Your Grace. I am yours.”

With a small bow, he turns and leaves her.

As she commanded.

* * *

That evening, Ghost pads into his chambers as Jon is getting ready for bed. Her Grace has had Grey Worm personally select two men to guard Jon’s door at night, chosen, Jon is certain, for their ability to be discreet about the King sleeping so far away from the Queen’s quarters. The guards shut the door behind Ghost. Jon strips down to his underclothes and unbinds his hair, scratching at his scalp as the pressure releases. He has trained with the children that afternoon, and then gone for a ride, before meeting Her Grace for dinner. The exercise does him good, both the sparring, and the riding. But the drilling lords and ladies is not enough. He must ask Grey Worm to spar with him daily, he thinks, to ensure his body stays strong and able.

Tomorrow he also plans to see the Master at Arms about forging new swords. He wants lighter swords made for the girls, ones like Arya’s Needle. He intends to find a swordsmen skilled in Water Dancing to come and train with the girls, to make better use of their strengths. Jon’s expertise is limited to heavier swords, and while the girls may all look up to Brienne of Tarth, they lack her strength. Jon wants to do them justice.

He rubs his teeth with a paste of salt and sage, and then brushes them off with a rough linen cloth. Uses the bedpan. On the table near the hearth rests a stack of books that Tyrion has had sent for him, and Jon selects one from the top without looking to see which one it is, and gets into bed. He settles beneath the covers and then looks up at his dire wolf, by the fire.

“Ghost,” he says, and the wolf raises his head. “To me,” he says, patting the bed beside him. Ghost alights easily onto the bed beside him, settling into the furs. Jon puts his hand in the wolf’s fur, then opens the book and begins to read.

It is about dragons. A story about Targaryens, from long, long ago. The mention of dragons sends Jon’s mind casting through the halls of the Keep, to her Grace’s bedroom. Daario is likely there with her, Jon knows. The thought hitches in his chest and he breathes in, slowly, and long.

Jon reads until he is tired, and when he is tired, he falls easily into a heavy rest, and sleeps throughout the entire night, a sleep that is peaceful, and unbothered, and deep.

In the morning, after readying for the day, Jon sets out early to go see the Master of Arms. The guards at his door bid him good morn as he leaves, otherwise, the castle is quiet—or this part of it is anyway, Jon knows there are cooks and kitchen girls and guardsmen hard at work already.

He is making his way down to the armory when he rounds a corner and there, walking towards him from the other end of the hall, is Daario Naharis, with a small retinue of three of his soldiers behind him. Daario’s arakh hangs from his belt, he is in his light leather armor. Dressed for the day.

Daario sees Jon, and doesn’t flinch. “Your Grace,” he says, genuflecting. Then, rather than standing, he stays in his bowed position, and doesn’t raise his eyes, as a man normally might. Submitting himself, in a way. Waiting for Jon’s response.

There is no reason for Jon to believe that Daario is aware that Jon knows his secret. And he isn’t going to call this man out publicly. He doesn’t want the attention drawn to any of it, isn’t about to give anyone a reason to gossip about the King confronting his wife’s lover in the hall.

“Lord Commander Naharis,” he says, acknowledging him, and by doing so, giving Naharis permission to stand. He does. Jon looks him in the eye.

“You’re about at an early hour,” Jon says, finally. Let the things that might hint at hang in the air. See if Daario flinches.

He doesn’t flinch, or even blink. “Yes, Your Grace. I wanted to see to this issue with the Second Sons myself.”

“What issue?” Jon asks.

“Forgive me, I thought a messenger had already reached you. It seems there was some trouble, with a few of them, in the night. Involving a girl, Your Grace.”

_ A girl._ Why did it seem that men were so determined to commit brutalities? Endless brutalities, upon women, upon children, upon one another. “They raped her?”

“Accounts seem to vary, and the woman is too frightened to speak. But yes, it would seem so.”

Second Sons. Who wouldn’t be here, if it wasn’t for Daario—but that hardly matters. Anywhere one went in the world, there were men like this. “Do you know these men?”

“I know them very well, Your Grace. We’ve many a night shared cups together.”

“The Queen has made a law. All rapers shall be put to death.” He watches Daario for his reaction to this.

Daario nods. “I’ll do it myself, if she wishes, Your Grace. Though I know she is partial to fire.”

Jon holds Daario’s gaze, trying to decide whether or not he trusts this man not to betray Her Grace. He had, after all, gone down on one knee, sworn an oath to Jon as his king, and then turned around and bedded his wife. But Jon himself had broken oaths. Jaime Lannister was one of the bravest men Jon knew, and had slayed his own Targaryen king. Tyrion Lannister himself had killed his own father, and his lover. Jon had been sold into slavery by his own men. Nothing was so simple as oaths made it seem.

Naharis realizes he is being taken stock of, and submits to it, meeting Jon not with defensiveness, or disrespect, but with acceptance. He simply waits, allowing Jon to take the measure of him. Any man who would bed another man’s wife is not trustworthy, of course. But Daario is, he feels, committed to Her Grace.

“See to your men, Lord Naharis. Round up the ones who are responsible, and bring them to me. And the woman, as well—though make certain she is brought separately, of course. Not by soldiers--ask Missandei for her assistance. Protect the woman from the sight of her attackers.”

Daario genuflects again. “As you command, my King,” he says. Jon takes his leave of him, then. When he gets to the end of the hall, he turns not toward the Master of Arms.

He turns to Her Grace’s chambers.

Missandei answers his knock on the door. “Your Grace,” she says warmly, as if there is no reason to be surprised by him arriving here at all.

“Good morning, Missandei. I wondered if I might have a moment with the Queen.”

“I’m afraid Her Grace is still dressing, my King—“

“It’s alright,” comes the Queen’s voice from within. “Send him in.”

Missandei smiles and steps back, allowing Jon to enter.

Jon can’t help it—his eyes go immediately to the bed. It is already made. He quickly shifts his gaze to her face, and finds her looking at him, from her seat before her vanity. Her hair is still loose, and she is in her dressing gown, silk of pale lilac. White winter light comes through the window behind her and illuminates her silver hair, makes it sparkle like sun on snow. She is beautiful, Jon thinks. He has long known this, of course, but finds himself struck by it more strongly now.

“Good morning, my lord,” she says.

“Good morning, Your Grace. I’ve just met—I’ve just heard news involving the Second Sons. Has it reached you yet?”

Her eyes darken. “Yes. I’ve ordered Commander Naharis to round up the men and bring them to me for trial.”

Jon nods. “I wondered if I might have an audience with them first.”

Her Grace squints her eyes in thought. Surprised by this request, he supposes. “Of course, my lord. If that is what you wish.”

Jon nods. “And the woman.”

“You want an audience with her as well?” the Queen asks. “Do you have reason to doubt her word?”

“No,” Jon says. “None. I would just like to speak to her. To offer her the crown’s apologies, and to see how we might assist her. I don’t know who she was—“

“She was a serving woman,” the Queen says. “Up early lighting fires, and the men were still at their drink, and found her.”

Rage rises in Jon. “She was working here in the keep? In our home?”

Her Grace nods gravely. “In what way do you propose to assist her?”

“I believe we should compensate her, in some way. Not that anything can make up for what was done to her. But we can make her life easier. Giver her—a place to live. Relieve her of her service until she feels prepared to return.”

Her Grace smiles at him. “A beautiful idea. I shall let you see to it, then."

Jon nods. "Thank you, Your Grace. That was all, I'll trouble you no longer-"

"I hope your new chambers were comfortable?"

It's hard to say why, exactly, but this surprises Jon. Unsteadies him on his feet. He doesn't know how to answer, and as he stands there, blinking, he realizes it is because there is no hint of mockery in her voice. Only concern.

"They were," he says at last. "I slept well."

Her Grace nods, then, quickly. Jon bows his leave and goes, wondering if that was truly sadness he saw in her eyes, just a flash of it, at his response.

Jon sits on his throne, next to Her Grace, on the Iron Throne, watching as Daario brings forward three men, three soldiers, with their arms bound before them. Two of the men look humbled, but the last is angry. He keeps his head down, but sneaks a gaze up at the Queen and King, and that gaze is full of disgust, anger. The men drop to their knees before the Dais. Daario bows low.

“My Queen,” he says. “My King. These three men have committed the crime of rape upon one of the women in service of your Keep. I offer them to you for your justice.”

There is a silence. The gathered court, Unsullied, Dothraki wait for the Queen to speak.

But she doesn’t. Jon does.

“What are their names?” he asks Daario.

“Torreck, Tymore, and Pate, Your Grace.”

“Torreck, Tymore and Pate,” Jon replies. “Is rape an acceptable action in the Bay of Dragons?”

Silence. Daario knees one of the men in his ribcage.

“N—no, Your Grace.”

“No. Which one are you?”

“Tymore, Your Grace.”

“Tymore. What happens in Meereen to a man who is found guilty of rape?”

“He may spend a few nights in a dungeon, Your Grace.”

“A few nights in a dungeon,” Jon repeats. “How many nights?”

“Perhaps—perhaps seven, Your Grace. Perhaps more.”

“Perhaps less?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Perhaps less.” Tymore speaks to the floor, his voice nervous and quivering. Jon looks to the angry man, the defiant one.

“Which one are you?” he says.

The man looks at him. “Pate.”

Daario knees this man in the side with a great deal of force, causing him to buckle forward. “You’re addressing the King.”

“He ain’t my King. I’m from the free cities.”

“Which city?” Jon says.

“Pentos.”

Daario raises a hand to strike the man for his insolence, but Jon holds up his palm, stills him.

“What do they do with rapers in Pentos, Pate?”

Pate shrugs. Jon nods at Daario. Daario strikes Pate with the back of his hand, snapping the man’s head to the side. He immediately begins to bleed from a fat opening on his lip.

“What do they do with rapers in Pentos?” Jon repeats.

Pate glowers, but he answers. “They put them in the stockades, maybe. Maybe nothing. Your Grace,” he adds quickly, when Daario raises his hand again.

“Here in Westeros, we used to send rapers to the Wall, to defend the land from the Free Folk, and the dead. They had to live out their lives there, in service to the realm. Never allowed to marry. If they tried to abandon their posts, they were put to death. My father carried out that sentence himself. What do you think, of this punishment? Is it fitting?”

The three men all nod, say, “Yes, Your Grace.” Trying to please him, Jon knows.

“It wasn’t fitting,” Jon says. The men go silent.

“Queen Daenerys Stormborn has recently passed a new law. The punishment for rape is now death.”

Torreck and Tymore begin to shake visibly. “Mercy, Your Grace,” Torreck says. “Please, mercy. Queen Daenerys—mercy, please.”

“Mercy.” Jon repeats. Beside him, Her Grace is still as stone. She has not taken her eyes from the men, even for a moment. He doesn’t need to look at her to know that her face holds no mercy.

“Do you know what I would like to do, to rapers?” Jon says. “I would like to take you and bind you in the yard, and allow you to be raped. I think this would be a fitting punishment. That woman you attacked. The woman you raped, and raped, and raped,” He looks from one man to the next as he repeats the word. “After you beat her. While you beat her. Do you think she’ll be moving on from this after—how many nights?”

“Seven,” Her Grace says.

“Seven. Do you think in seven nights time, she’ll be recovered? That she’ll be free? Answer me.”

“No, Your Grace!” Tymore and Torreck say. Tymore begins to cry. He is young, probably not yet into his twenties, Jon judges.

“What is the mercy, for her? Her name is Anna. She has two children, daughters. Her husband died in the Great War. How are Her Grace and I to show mercy to Anna?”

“I showed her mercy,” Pate sneers.

At this, Daario grabs Pate by the back of his shirt, and forces him, face down, onto the floor. Pate struggles, and Daario presses his face into the cold stones. Then he lowers his face to the man’s, and whispers something in his ear. Pate stops struggling.

When there is silence again, Jon speaks. “I should like to see you, all three of you, raped. And beaten. The way you beat her.” He pauses. Torreck and Tymore don’t ask again for mercy. Tymore continues to cry. “But Her Grace, Queen Daenerys Stormborn, is building a more civilized country. And so I leave you to her mercy.”

They look at her, the two who can, faint glimmers of hope in their eyes.

They do not know Her Grace.

“Torreck, Tymore, and Pate, of Dragon’s Bay and the Free Cities,” she says. “I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, sentence you to die.”

Tymore cannot contain himself. He sobs openly. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

“Commander Naharis, please see these men to my dungeons, to be held until the time of their execution,” Her Grace commands.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Naharis says, bowing low. He jerks Pate to his feet, and leads the offenders out of the throne room, on their leads. Jon is glad to see them, leashed thus. He knows what it does to a man’s dignity, to his sense of himself. He spent months on a leash, the end of it always held by Euron.

It wears away, at a man. He knows this well.

Her Grace stands, and Jon stands with her. Together, they take their leave.

The woman, they see separately. Jon removes all his armor, leaves Longclaw in his chambers, and they meet with her in a chamber meant for entertaining guests. Missandei escorts her in, and Jon lets Her Grace do all of the talking—aware of himself as a member of the sex that hurt her, he listens quietly, tries to make his presence a gentle one. Anna has a pretty face—a curse, Jon knows—a split lip, a swollen, blackened eye. She tries to kneel and the Queen tells her not to, for “the crown has failed you”. Her Grace is visibly moved. They retire the woman from service. Give her quarters of her choosing, within the Keep or outside of it, and a generous monthly pension. The woman is grateful, and even teary, but she isn’t broken. That is plain to see, in the way she holds herself, the way she meets the Queen’s eye. There will be life for her, after this.

Things that seem intolerable can, in fact, be tolerated. One can survive so much more than they might imagine. Than they might wish. Jon has knowledge of this himself, knows he can and will survive even things he wishes would kill him. So the fact that he can tolerate Her Grace’s choice does not surprise him.The problem, however, becomes the secrecy. Her Grace acting furtively behind his back is humiliating; the fact that she is certainly in league with Tyrion, that the two of them believe they share a secret he isn’t part of, is worse.

So, one morning after he has been sleeping alone for nearly a fortnight, Jon seeks out Tyrion in his chambers. The Queen has outfitted her Hand luxuriously, in fine rooms with velvet draperies and summer views of the city.  
  
"Your Grace," he says, when Jon enters. Varys is there, and the two of them stand. Tyrion’s face shows immediate concern. Jon thinks the man looks older nearly every day. Varys’ expression is impassive, as always. Jon nods at him, knowing that Varys must surely know what Her Grace is doing.  
  
"I would offer you a cup of wine, but . . ." Tyrion begins.  
  
Jon shakes his head. "No. But I would speak to you in privacy, my Lord Hand."  
  
Varys gives a little bow. "Your Grace," he says, and leaves Jon alone with Tyrion. Tyrion is obviously wary. Jon takes a seat in a chair, but Tyrion remains standing, watching him.

“Last time we spoke privately I thoroughly humiliated myself,” Tyrion begins.

Jon nods. “Aye. But I’m not here about that.” There is no reason to tarry, so Jon says, simply, “I have not failed to notice Her Grace enjoys the company of Commander Naharis.”  
  
Tyrion, for once, looks shocked. His mouth opens, and there is a brief pause before words start pouring out. Jon supposes the dwarf did not expect him to be so forthcoming about such matters.  
  
“Every marriage has its intimacies and its secrets,” Tyrion says. Jon can actually see him regaining his mental balance, as he speaks. “Even more so the marriages of monarchs. This you’d know better than I. I cannot speak to the subtleties between you. But I can say, our queen is a passionate woman. Fire runs in her blood," Tyrion tells him. “And telling Her Grace how to conduct her affairs has never brought me anything but pain and embarrassment.”  
  
“I agree,” Jon says. “And as I can’t match her fire, I won’t begrudge her stoking hers where she can. I won’t interfere. But I want you to know that I know. I won’t have you treating me like a fool.”  
  
Tyrion blinks. He’d been expecting Jon to ask him to intercede, he supposes. To throw Naharis out. The Hand to the Queen hold his gaze for a long moment. His face is somber, drawn. At last he nods.  
  
"I see, Your Grace. If there should be a child,” Tyrion begins.  
  
“I will acknowledge any child born to Her Grace as my own, and love it as such,” Jon says. He hears a power in his own voice that he hasn’t heard in some time. "There will be no bastards born at Queen's Landing, not while I am King. You needn't worry about that. You can tell her I said it."  
  
"You are a man of great strength, Jon Snow", Tyrion says. Jon huffs wryly at this.  
  
"I’m not,” he says. "Not any longer. But I can still remember what it felt like to be one. Can still put on the appearance of one from time to time."

With that, Jon stands and makes to go. But Tyrion calls out to him.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion says. Jon stops, looks back at him. “You are my sovereign. And I regret that I have not always treated you as such. It’s not because I don’t respect you—nothing could be farther from the truth. It’s just that I have known you for so long. But the fact that I knew you when you were a boy doesn’t change the fact that you are my King.”

“I don’t care about that,” Jon says. He hadn’t married Her Grace because he wanted to be a ruler. He had done it for Arya, and Sansa. For the North.

“I know that you don’t. I only wanted to say that I’m sorry, Your Grace. The way I spoke to you—it was not a fitting way to speak to my sovereign ruler.”

Jon sighs heavily. “You were advocating for Her Grace. Isn’t that so? You knew what she had done, and you thought that, were I to do the same, it might level things, between us, somehow. Make it alright?”

Tyrion’s eyes are deeply sorrowful as he nods. “That was part of it, yes. I didn’t invent the part about the healing arts.”

Everytime he calls it thus—_healing arts_—Jon wants to hit something, or laugh. “You just keep advocating for her. Make sure you’re doing that. Fight for her, not against her on everything. Or I’ll tell her about it—all of it. I’ll do whatever it takes to you have you removed, if I think for a moment you’re not on her side. The Queen needs someone who can be completely on her side, someone she can turn to. And that’s supposed to be you, as it can’t be me. It isn’t good for her, to feel alone.”

Tyrion goes down on one knee and bows his head. “As you command, my King,” he says. “I swear it.”

“Good,” Jon says shortly and leaves.

He teaches himself not to think of her, at night.

Euron had once kidnapped a girl to use as leverage against Jon, to make him submit, and had managed to take the girl’s father and his men captive when they came to rescue her. Once the men were subdued, Euron had forced Jon to make the choice—sentence them to death himself, or watch as Euron tortured them for days before letting them die. Jon had sentenced them to quick deaths, of course, and then Euron had made him carry out the sentence—but rather than allowing Jon to simply execute them, he’d armed the men and made Jon fight to carry the sentence out. Fight for his own life over theirs.

And Jon had. He had killed them all.

He thinks about that now as he stands to the right of the Queen, next to Tyrion, at the execution of the soldiers who have been convicted of rape. There are eight of them. Three Second Sons and the five Lannister soldiers who had raped the young girl in the streets. They will all be put to death here, today. Jon watches their faces, the ways different men grapple with their last moments on earth, and though he is glad they will be executed, he is also glad he is not the one that has to do the killing—despite how badly he wants to see them punished. When he had defended Her Grace’s wish to execute rapers, he had done so despite the fact that he’d assumed he’d be the one who would have to execute them, as the King, and that was not a task he relished. A lifetime of conditioning about who carried out executions had blurred his thinking. He’d momentarily forgotten who he was married to.

He looks away from them, on their knees before he and Her Grace, and looks out over the crowd. He senses some restlessness there. There are faces that look satisfied, and others that are angry, begrudging. Men are used to getting away with rape. Many will not take kindly to the Queen’s new order. Reflexively, he puts his hand on Longclaw’s hilt. He is in his full battle wear, a gambeson, leather armor, a gorget—a new one, the queen had ordered made, featuring both the wolf of House Stark and the Dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned upon it, a fur cloak. And his crown, which feels odd still, every time he must wear it. It was once worn by one of her ancestors—silver, comprised of the figures of swirling dragons, set with small purple stones. At audience, he wears a simpler one, but Her Grace had this one brought to him this morning. As for his wife, she is only in a black dress of pressed velvet—it gives the impression of armor, the shape of it, but will not offer much protection. He glances at Grey Worm and Daario, to her left. Both have watchful eyes on the crowd, which eases him.

And then, of course, there is Drogon.

Jon glances down at Tyrion. “Does it trouble you?” he’d asked him, as they’d walked through the halls of the Keep on their way here. “Even though they’re rapers, they’re your men.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Tyrion had answered lightly. “I’ve declared for House Targaryen.”

Now the Queen steps forward, opening her mouth to speak, and the crowd quiets. Jon stands at attention and gazes out at the people of the city.Tyrion had offered to make this address for her, but Her Grace wished to do it herself. She seems newly dedicated to the task of ruling of late, meets tirelessly to draft new laws, find new solutions to old problems—hunger, being the main one. The brutality of men, the close second. “Citizens of Queen’s Landing,” she begins. “Men, women, and children. These eight men before you have been accused of rape, three of them upon a woman, and five upon a child, two innocent citizens of the realm. They have been found guilty. Let it be known that henceforth, all those found guilty of rape in the Seven Kingdoms will be put to death.”

A murmur goes up in the crowd, a wave of movement spreading through them. Jon hears cries, about Queens, about rapers. Gripes. They are agitated, the people. Tyrion has prepared her Grace for this—for possible heckling, even an uproar, and so she remains impassive. She turns her gaze to the men, arranged between her and Drogon and angled to the side, no one and nothing behind them. “I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, do sentence you all to die.” The silence is heavy as midwinter snow. The young one is crying again. Men do not expect to die, for rape. They expect to live to do it again, and again. Jon watches as two of the men piss themselves, and one looses control of his bowels.

“Dracarys.”

The crowd begins to scream. Not at the blast of dragon fire that issues from Drogon’s mouth—though the heat is so intense, Jon reflexively moves his head away from it as it blazes against his skin, it feels hot enough to melt the crown on his head---but because Her Grace has stood between her dragon and the soldiers, and is therefore right in the center of the river of fire that blazes, stunning and terrifying, from the dragon’s mouth. She disappears into the flame, the blast so consuming that Jon loses shape of her form altogether. There is nothing but fire, and he would be terrified, had she not warned him

Then the fire stops. Before Daenerys are the burnt and charred remains of eight men. And emerging from the center of the inferno, as the flames die, is the Queen herself. Naked now, all her clothes burnt away. In the chill winter air she stands before them, her silver hair blowing behind her, looking out upon her people, her eyes fierce, carrying their own fire. She stands proudly and unashamed in her nakedness. She appears, to him now, a holy thing. Jon has been to war with her, seen her ride in battle, seen her take King’s Landing, and yet he still finds himself breathless with awe.

As do the people. Her Grace stands like a warrior goddess before them and one by one, her people drop to their knees, bowing their heads, in hushed astonishment. It is one thing, to hear her called the Unburnt. It is an entirely different thing to see it.

Her Grace stands for a long moment, looking out over the people, letting them see her. Then she turns, naked, and takes her leave. Jon follows, then Tyrion, then Daario and Grey Worm. Behind them, Drogon beats his massive wings, lets out a screech, and takes to the air, the wind he creates gusting powerfully over the crowd, scattering ashes and remains.

She has instructed them not to cover her, and they don’t. Not until they reach one of the doors to the Keep does Her Grace find Missandei, waiting with a robe. Missandei holds it open, and Her Grace shrugs into it, unhurried, though Jon finds the reflex to avert his eyes to protect her modesty too strong to ignore.

“Well,” Tyrion said. “A most effective show of power, Your Grace.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes. Power. They’ll be afraid to break my laws, now, perhaps. But they’ll be obeying out of fear. Not love.”

“It’s difficult to have both,” Tyrion says solemnly.

“The liberated of Yunkai and Astopor loved her,” Daario says. “It wasn’t so difficult.”

“Those were liberated slaves. These are free men and women,” Tyrion counters.

Jon eyes his wife’s lover. Naharis is usually more reticent, when they are all together like this. Her Grace allowed him into a council meeting, on one occasion, and he is sometimes present for more casual conversations on state affairs, but he usually keeps silent unless asked a direct question about Dragon’s Bay. Whether Naharis is growing more comfortable, or making his own show of power, or is merely being earnest, is uncertain. Jon clears his throat.

“Commander Naharis is right,” he says. He doesn’t miss the way Tyrion’s eyes skitter to him in a kind of fear, but he ignores it. “Her Grace liberated the people of Queen’s Landing from a brutal tyrant. But it was the nobility Cersei brutalized, mostly. The smallfolk, she ignored. We should be getting a stronger message out. So that the people remember, Her Grace has freed them.” He looks pointedly at Tyrion.

Naharis says nothing, just bows his head respectfully at Jon’s words. He is unfailingly respectful of Jon. Jon figures he knows he has won. He does Jon and Daenerys the favor of never flirting with her openly in the presence of others. Daenerys would not have it otherwise, Jon knows. Would never allow for the spread of rumors that might jeopardize her dynasty--that could call the legitimacy of her heir into question. Daario acknowledges and kneels to Jon. Speaks to him rarely, but decorously when he does. On occasion, Jon thinks to remind him of the oaths he spoke, but has Daario truly broken them? He is, after all, in service of the Queen.

“From my family,” Tyrion says now, providing the words Jon didn’t speak. Jon nods.

Her Grace has been watching Jon, listening. Now she looks back to Tyrion. “You’ve promised never to try to convince me that people are toasting to my health in the streets,” she says. “But perhaps a stronger focus on my reputation would be wise.”

“But the Queen and King have promised food to orphanages to last the winter, and opened up a kitchen to feed the poor,” Missandei says. “Are the people not grateful?”

“Some are, of course,” Tyrion says. “Some feel feeding the orphans and the poor is giving resources to those who are undeserving—who should, it is said, work harder—“

“No one works harder than the poor,” Her Grace says sharply. “As if the lords and ladies are working so hard, at their whoring and gambling and gossipping. I imagine it would be hard to shun such pleasures, had you grown up indulging in them.” She directs a hard gaze at Tyrion.

Jon smiles at her ferocity. Lately, he always does. He couldn’t say why, but her anger, when it isn’t directed at his sexual performance, thrills him. And she’s right. These do seem to be the primary occupations of the wealthy in the city.

“And that, of course, is the issue,” Tyrion says. “The nobility supports the crown. Were the crown to take too much of the nobility’s fortune and dispense it to the poor, the nobility should feel neglected. They will feel that their wealth isn’t being used to support their interests. It is a delicate balance to walk.”

“I need wealth that isn’t from the nobility, then,” Daenerys says.

“And where do you suggest we get that?” Tyrion says.

“Conquering cities acquires wealth,” Naharis says. Jon watches Her Grace’s eyes flick up quickly to meet his. Sees the way her face lights. Something in her likes this. Wants it.

“And costs lives,” Jon says evenly. He won’t speak out against Her Grace if they are not alone together, a promise he’s made to himself. So he speaks against Naharis, before Her Grace can vocally agree with him. She looks at him, and he sees her eyes calculating.

At last, she nods. “At tomorrow’s council meeting, we shall discuss your proposals for actions that might satisfy the wealthy and the poor,” she says to Tyrion. He bows.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he says, but Jon can see the Hand’s thinly veiled exasperation. One day is not much time to overturn thousands of years of social order. Jon offers the Queen his arm, and she takes it. They fall into line behind her, Grey Worm, Tyrion, Missandei, and Naharis, and Her Grace pauses, and turns.

"I have no need for any of you except Missandei," she says, but when Jon reflexively begins to drop her arm, she grips it, holding onto him, and so he stays. "You have much work to do, Lord Hand. And you," she says to Naharis. "Will spend the rest of the day with your soldiers, making sure nothing like this ever happens again. You told me once the Second Sons would obey you. I see far too little evidence of that."

"Yes, Your Grace," Naharis says, bowing deeply. "My deepest apologies."

Jon watches her face, watches her do this thing she does to the air around them, watches how Tyrion and Naharis both respect her and fear her, and he has to hold back a little smile of pride. She is a dragon herself. He thinks he has never seen anything so dominant and so beautiful as she is.

It hits him with a pang, and naggles at him as he takes the Queen back to her room, leaving her there with Missandei. Before he goes, Her Grace smiles at him, a small smile, and Jon's insides both rise and fall at the same time. He nods and excuses himself before he can do something foolish, and goes back to his own quarters where he stands before the window, looking out at falling snow, and tries to gather himself. 

It is an inconvenient time, he thinks, to realize that he is in love with his wife.


	8. At Least I Understood Then, the Hunger I Felt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter contains the mention of rape in reference to Jon, Dany, and Sansa. There are no graphic flashbacks. There is mention of how the memory of rape can live in the body.

She had been stupid to hope for love in an arranged marriage.

This is what Dany thinks as she rolls over, stirring from a deep sleep that, she senses now, has been filled with dark and disturbing dreams. Daario is sprawled across the bed, wanton with sleep, his legs tangled in the furs. She knows he loves her, or thinks he does. Knows he would do anything for her. Yet she cannot love him back, and he doesn’t ask her to.

Perhaps that was part of the issue, with Jon. Perhaps she wanted too much. Perhaps none of what she expected of him was fair. Especially expecting him to enjoy making love to her. Hadn’t she heard story upon story of what queens withstood, in the private chambers of their husband kings? Silly to think it would have been any different for Jon.

And as for Daario, well--wives of kings are expected to turn their heads the other way when their husbands stray. But the expectations are different, for husbands of queens.

She and the king meet privately now, most days, to discuss matters of state. Jon seems at ease in her presence, more than ever before. This surprises her. After Tyrion told her that Jon was aware of what she was doing with Daario, she expected—something, and waited for it to come. Heated words, a confrontation. She thought perhaps Jon would come to her, sputtering, angry, demanding to have Daario removed.

But he doesn’t. He is, after all, more dignified and enduring than all that.

She hasn’t told Daario, that Jon knows. Would prefer to enjoy her lover without being in league with him, behind Jon’s back.

Tyrion has suggested she bring her husband to her chambers only a few nights a month. “There are certain times each moon when a woman is most likely to conceive,” he tells her, as if she hasn’t heard this before. He is anxious for her to bear a child, secure her succession. But Dany can’t bring herself to do it. She can’t put Jon through whatever it was that bedding her was putting him through. Especially not after what she has done.

She frightens herself, sometimes. Sometimes, she feels an inferno inside her, one that is difficult to contain. When Jon had become like his wolf, he had also managed to harness himself. To reel himself in. She fears that, should she let the fire roar up within her, it would then blast out, become something beyond her, something she couldn’t stop.

She refuses to risk doing that, to Jon.

Another winter morning. The maesters have predicted a long one, and warn her in ominous tones that men do strange things in the depths of winter. Beside her, Daario stirs in bed. Dany’s back is to him, and he wraps his arm around her waist, draws her close to him. Her two husbands, she didn’t choose. Life chose them for her. But she chose this man, and while she has never been in love with him, it’s the choosing of him that matters. The agency she had, in this. Daario’s hand roams up, to her breast, and then down, down, and she allows it for a moment before she grabs his hand, stills it, and rolls over, rolls on top of him, holds him beneath her, and begins to kiss him.

For awhile, the world falls away.

Afterwards, Daario slips off through the passageway, and Dany sends for Missandei. After she has bathed, and dressed, and made certain the bed clothes are changed, she goes to meet with Jon.

In their daily encounters, Jon is unfailingly polite. He sends no little barbs her way, makes no pointed comments, like most husbands would. He never pouts. He carries himself with a dignity that is all the more impressive, considering how things are, between them. And of course he doesn’t preen and parade in front of Daario, like Daario had done to Hizdahr. Today, he has reached the chamber before her. He rises when she enters, waits to sit again until she is seated. There is water with lemons and honey in a pitcher on the table for them, and someone—a serving girl, or Jon himself—has already poured them each a glass.

“How was your rest?” she asks him.

“Very good, thank you,” Jon says. He never asks her how her rest was, in return. Is aware of what it might seem he was referring to. He is that considerate of her comfort.

“Have you any news on the restoration of the city?”

Jon nods. “I spoke with the master mason yesterday, about your idea of using rubble to construct homes for the poor. His concern is that they would be unsightly.”

“I’m not concerned about their sightliness. I’m concerned that every man, woman and child have a sheltered place to wait out the winter.”

Jon smiles. “I told him you would say as much. He said he’d do it at the Queen’s command, but that there simply isn’t room within the walls to build new structures. Even allowing for the destruction that came when you took the city.”

“And why should we not just raze Flea Bottom? Burn the whole thing down, re-route the gutters, build it anew? Without brothels.”

“Not a good undertaking for winter, Your Grace,” he says.

Dany sighs. She has made him promise not to flatter her, and he has kept that promise. He tells her the truth, she believes. Points out the flaws in her thinking.

“Can you imagine being the ruler of a Kingdom, and allowing children in it to starve?” she says. “I can’t. And yet it’s what rulers have done for centuries upon centuries. Children are beaten, and sold, and starved, while they sat within these walls gambling and jousting and drinking.”

He is sitting with one leg crossed at the knee, his hand cupping his face, and his expression is indulgent. Admiring, even. She has been shocked to find that his eyes are never devoid of softness when he looks at her. It creates a terrible pang of longing, though, for things that might have been.

“What would a dragon do?” he asks.

Dany raises an eyebrow wryly. “Just as I said. Burn it all down and let the diamonds emerge from the ash.”

Jon smiles across the table at her, and in his eyes glints a faint twinkle. “Some things worth keeping _can_ burn,” he reminds her. “We can’t all be as resilient to flame as you.”

There are times, like this, when it’s almost hard to believe that the first ten moons of their marriage were real, and she feels like Jon is about to crack a grin, admit it was all in jest, sweep everything off a table and lay her down upon it. Make love to her. It’s like seeing glimpses of someone, inside, who must still be there, but who, most of the time, is very far away.

“I suppose you’re right,” she says, letting her eyes glimmer back at his, just a little. “It would just be so much easier, I think sometimes. To clear it all—everything—and start anew.”

Jon narrows his gaze, but not in anger—it is a look of thoughtfulness, and consideration, a look hinting, once again, at those depths in him Dany can’t ever reach. For a moment, something hangs in the air between them. Some understanding, some possibility. _Start anew._

But it can’t last. It never does. “We could build outside the walls, of course, but that would leave a vulnerable population more vulnerable to attack. . .”

They discuss Highgarden, and the Stormlands, and the Vale. Discuss ways to deal with the influx of rapers that seem to be brought to the castle in increasing numbers, rather than decreasing, now that the Unsullied’s orders have changed. When Dany feels herself rising in anger, at the state of things in the Seven Kingdoms, hears herself snap, Jon always smiles. He seems to enjoy this about her, her fire. He can, she supposes.

Now that he is safe from it.

* * *

Nights pass. Winter deepens. Jon fulfills all his duties during the day, and none of them at night. In this way, he begins to find room to breathe. 

He is surprised to find that he looks forward to meeting daily with Her Grace. She vacillates these days between boredom and purpose. On days when she is purposeful, her ferocity warms him. She reminds him of himself, when he was preparing to fight the army of the dead.

This morning, however, she arrives seeming bored. As if her fire has waned. All fires, he knows, must sometimes be re-kindled. He bids her good morning and she nods at him, her face not unfriendly, but not alight the way it sometimes is. She asks him how he slept, and he answers, but does not return the question. He is aware of what such a conversation would hint at, and does not want to make her feel uneasy. It pains him, sometimes, but he has to admit that whatever attentions, whatever passion she receives from Daario, it has been good for her. It makes him glad, to see her relaxed. He decides he will abide the reason, because he values the result.

He wishes, at times, that he could be the cause of her new contentedness. But he isn't capable of that, anymore.

“We are supposed to hold audience today,” she says. “If I have to hear another farmer complaining about whose dairy cow is grazing from whose land, or whose hog was bigger, I believe I'll go mad."

Jon smiles. “All those years you spent traipsing around Essos, is this what you imagined you were heading toward?”

Her Grace laughs, and he thinks how little he hears her do so, but how wonderful it is, when he does. “Not precisely,” she says. “Conquering was easier.”

He sends her a look. “When was the last time you rode a dragon?”

She sends him a look back, and Jon realizes how it might be taken—the set of words he just chose to say to her. But she isn’t made uncomfortable by it. “Too long,” she says. “Is that what you recommend? That I go riding with Drogon, rather than see to my people?”

Jon shrugs. “You seem happier, when you do, is all,” he says.

Daenerys sighs. “Don’t you ever miss it? I felt so full of purpose, then. In the wars.”

Jon considers her words, taking in her silver hair, her violet eyes. She is so small, yet she takes up all the space of any room she is ever in.

“Aye,” he admits. “Not the war, not the fighting. But the sense of purpose.”

“What did you feel your purpose was, then?” she asks. “You didn’t want to be king?”

She says it like she can hardly believe that someone might not want to be a monarch, and he huffs a little laugh. “No, Your Grace. I never did. I thought my purpose was to defeat the army of the dead.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “A small thing, then. Just to save the entire world.”

Jon has never thought of it like this. It makes it sound as if he had imagined himself some kind of savior, and he hadn’t.

“It’s just that I knew they were coming. I’d seen them. And I knew nothing else mattered, if we didn’t defeat the Night’s King.”

“And what did you imagine you would do after?” she asks. Her voice is light, curious.

“I didn’t know that there would be an after,” he tells her. “Until you arrived.”

Her eyes widen at him. She looks stunned, and pleased. “I told you not to flatter me,” she says.

“I’m not,” Jon says simply. “I was certain we’d fail, but that we had to try. Then you came in on your dragon, and I began to think that maybe we had a chance.”

He sees his words touch her deeply, more deeply than flattery. Her eyes darken a bit, her expression sombers. Then she sighs.

“And here I am complaining about getting what I wanted.”

Jon nods. He understands this. “Aye.”

Her gaze becomes sharper, suddenly. She measures him. “And you never wanted _this._ You never wanted any of it.”

Jon breathes in, long and deep, lets the air out slowly. It’s true, what she’s saying. He had imagined that after defeating the dead, he might live out a simple life at Winterfell. Or at least a simpler life. His father’s life had not been full of idle, but it had been a good life. Until Robert Baratheon had come calling.

But it hadn’t been meant to be. The need for an alliance with the Dragon Queen had been too strong. He can’t say that to his wife, of course. Can’t tell her that it wasn’t so much that he wanted to marry her, as it was that he desired to spare Arya and Sansa and the North from other fortunes.

But there’s more to it, now. He considers telling her that lately he wants only to be near to her—not to make love to her, certainly, but to be in proximity to her alluring combination of compassion and righteous anger, cool water and flame--and that somehow, all of this makes being king in a southern land all right. That he looks for opportunities to make her laugh. That when she enters a room it sends a little tingle of something that is not arousal, at all, but an enjoyable sort of awareness, through his body. But he can’t imagine how that knowledge, considering her relationship with Daario, would bring her anything but pain. He doesn’t want to bring her pain.

“I’ve known many different fates,” he tells her, finally. “This is one of the better ones.”

Tyrion asks Jon if he might like to call his wildling friends to court. 

"Tormund Giantsbane?' he says. "At court?"

"An amusing prospect, I know. However, the Queen and I agree it would be good for you to have a familiar face about the Keep. Someone whose company you enjoy.”

"And what of Arya, then?" he says. "Sansa?"

Tyrion quirks his head at him. "Your sisters you may summon at anytime, Your Grace," he says slowly. "You are the King."

_Of course_, Jon reprimands himself. He is not a captive here. He must stop acting like one.

"I'd like to see them," he says. "And yes, Tormund, if you think his presence would be tolerated."

"Things between you and Daenerys have not been what anyone had hoped," Tyrion says bluntly, and Jon frowns and looks away. The words hurt him. Haven’t things improved? Is their current arrangement really so shameful, so intolerable? "But she bears you no ill will. Of course your friends will be tolerated, Your Grace. Whoever they are, but especially those who helped save the living from the dead.”

* * *

In preparation for the arrival of his sisters, Daenerys moves Jon into her quarters again. She is certain that, between the two of them, Sansa and Arya will miss nothing. Especially nothing having to do with their brother. It was a risk to have them here at all, Tyrion had warned her. Not that Dany had needed the warning. She had been well aware of the risk, but had decided the benefits to Jon outweighed them. His sadness is one she understands. He needs a face that is welcome and warm to him as much as she does.

At the sight of Arya, her husband lets out a smile that is brighter than any Daenerys has seen him wear for the eleven moons of their marriage.

Eleven moons. She had hoped to be holding a child to her breast by now.

Arya's grin is of equal measure, though Dany recalls that at court she is as somber and sullen as her brother. For Jon's sake, Daenerys has forgone a formal reception in the throne room, so that the family Stark may meet more intimately in the courtyard. Arya unseats her horse and she and Jon move toward each other. Within seconds Jon has swept his sister up into his arms. He presses her tightly to him, his eyes squeezing shut. He cherishes her. Daenerys sees how powerful it can be, when Jon Snow cherishes a person. It is beautiful, and strong. The power of it warms the courtyard beneath the weak winter sun.

Jon goes to Sansa's horse and takes her hand as she dismounts, then sweeps her up in a hug of the same power and love. It surprises Sansa, Daenerys sees. She surmises that the Warden of the North has been treated with softer gloves than those currently afforded her by her older brother. Dany knows what that is like, to have everyone tiptoe around you so much that, though you dislike it at first, you grow accustomed to it, until any other sort of treatment seems rough and disrespectful.

But Sansa smiles at Jon’s touch, her face warming from surprise to fondness. He sets her down and she speaks words into his ear. Jon is amused, shakes his head. His sisters do not genuflect before him as they ought. Jon almost certainly doesn’t notice. But Dany does. 

Before Sansa and Arya can turn to her and greet her, a great beast of fur topped with flaming red hair barrels out of nowhere and smacks into her husband with such force, Dany is shocked it doesn’t knock him off his feet. Then the beast wraps its arms around the King and lifts him up from the ground, shaking him.

“My little Crow!” says Tormund Giantsbane fondly, setting Jon down. “Look at you. Not a little Crow anymore. A great king with a great castle. You know what they say, don’t you, about the size of a man’s Keep? Ha ha!”

He slaps Jon’s back, and Jon grins at him widely.

“Never imagined I’d see you this far south,” Jon says.

“Nor did I, and I don’t like it neither. The women here are too small, by far.” He pulls in close to Jon, and says something Daenerys can’t quiet make out, though she thinks she hears him mention Tarth. Whatever he says, it makes Jon laugh, or at least comes as close to it as Dany has ever seen, smiling in with a huff and shaking his head.

“Ah! The Dragon Queen!” Tormund says, and turns his attention suddenly to her. “Well, is it true what they’re saying in the North? Have you begun to breathe fire out your own mouth? And out your cunt as well? Heh heh!” Before Daenerys can answer, he wraps her in a giant hug, which is so outside of protocol, combined with the words he has just spoken, that Dany is afraid for a moment that Grey Worm will behead him before he puts her down. It’s too much, it startles her, to be treated thus, and she laughs. In her laughter, she finds Jon’s face, and catches it while he is still aghast, brows knitted, worried, probably, that she will have Tormund executed. But he relaxes when he sees her laughing, and smiles again himself, his grin broad enough to show his teeth.

Gods, he is beautiful, her husband. For a moment, in his joy, she again sees the other him. The one who is unbroken. The one she cannot find.

That night, Daenerys stands to leave the feasting early. She bends and speaks into Jon’s ear, bids him to stay behind. She wants to afford him some privacy, with his family, and his Free Folk. She wonders what he would say, if she invited him into her room this evening. He would say _of course_, no doubt. Would do whatever she asked. But she doesn’t want him on such terms. Watching him this evening, with his friends and his sisters, he has seemed peaceful and at ease—he has seemed happy.

She wonders if he takes comfort in another woman. She couldn’t blame him if he did, of course.

Jon stills her hand on his shoulder and turns to her. “You don’t have to go,” he says.

Dany pauses, because the touch is so much like that of a lover. But she knows it isn’t, knows that isn’t how he means it. Still, she considers a statement like this, coming from Jon Snow, to be of consequence. Jon is courteous, always, but he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean in attempts to be polite. It is a trait that makes her feel safe around him. She nods.

“All right,” she says, retaking her seat. She picks up her wine goblet, and then puts it back down. She doesn’t want to say, or do, anything regrettable. Not to Jon. Not tonight.

Her eyes fall on Tormund Giantsbane, who is staring fixedly at something across the room. She follows the man’s gaze. It seems to be set on the table where Arya and Sansa sit with Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne, Arya and Brienne examining a knife, and Sansa and Jaime in some sort of conversation that has each looking at the other with a mix of amusement and alarm.

“Is your friend in love with one of your sisters?” she comments to Jon without thinking, and Jon lets out a little cough, as if his honeyed water has stopped in his throat.

“No, Your Grace,” he says, and Dany turns to him. He is hiding his mouth, now, behind his goblet.

“Are you laughing at me?” she says.

“No, Your Grace,” Jon assures her. But his chest is heaving with it.

Her eyes widen at him. “What? Would that be so ridiculous?” She is amused, but on uncertain ground. No one has dared to laugh at her outright in a very long time.

Jon puts his cup down, and she sees his wide grin. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he says, through another ripple of laughter. “Gods forbid such a thing. No, it’s Ser Brienne he’s fixated upon, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Daenerys says, and something about the way she says it—she knows not what—sends Jon into a fresh ripple of laughter. This shocks her. She raises an eyebrow at him.

“You laugh too freely at your sovereign,” she says, but speaks it with a look in her eye to let him know she is in jest. Jon isn’t cowed by her arch tone.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he says with mock seriousness—or an attempt at it, anyway, considering how he is still chuckling audibly at her. “I did not mean to give offense.” She widens her eyes at him, and looks away. But she can’t keep the tiny smile off her face.

* * *

Jon is able to spar with Arya again. He is able to observe Sansa. He worries about her, about what wounds lie beneath her brittle surface. She loosens some, however, with him, and with Brienne, and Arya, and that eases Jon. Likewise, Jaime’s presence is good for Tyrion. The Hand begins to seem less beleaguered. He laughs again, at times.

He knows that Her Grace still meets with Daario, that now she finds him, somehow, in his chambers, rather than entertaining him in hers. That many nights, the room beside his sits still and empty. He never hears her leave, or arrive.

He rarely encounters Daario. But one morning, when he rides out into the camps with Grey Worm to survey the troops, Her Grace’s bizarre army of Unsullied and Dothraki and Gold Cloaks and former Lannister soldiers, he encounters Daario there, among his men, playing at some game involving coins and knives.

“Your Grace,” Naharis says, when he notices Jon on his horse, bowing low.

“Commander,” Jon says, giving him permission to rise. “How are your men faring?” he asks.

“They are honored to be in the service of the Dragon Queen,” Daario says.

“Are they?” asks Jon. He doubts this. They would almost certainly be happier back in Essos, where it’s not so cold. But to suggest this would be to suggest to Daario that Jon wants him to leave, and Jon won’t give him that. “Excellent. Tell them the crown is grateful for their service.”

“I will, Your Grace,” Daario nods. “Though they are soldiers, in a time of peace. They have little to complain about.”

“I suppose that’s so,” Jon says. “After all, they survived the long night. Many didn’t.”

Naharis waits for Jon to say more. But Jon finds he has nothing more to say. With a nod, he leaves his wife’s lover there, among his soldiers and his weapons and his games, and rides off.

A habit forms, for the Stark siblings. They begin to gather nightly in Jon’s chambers after dinner. Sansa drinks wine, Arya ale. Jon still cannot abide the taste of wine; although he has had some, once or twice, in order to do what he needed to do in his marriage. Ale tastes better but still makes Jon uncomfortable. Sansa raises her glass to her lips, and Jon finds himself smiling crookedly, at a memory.

“Remember when you caught Robb and Theon and I with that flagon of wine in the stables?” he says. “We were only boys.”

Sansa sighs, looks ever so slightly aggrieved. “Gods, don’t remind me,” she says.

Arya raises a questioning eyebrow at Jon. “I told on them,” Sansa admits. “Father whipped them. Can you forgive me, now?” she says to Jon.

Jon smiles. “Ah, there’s nothing to forgive. You were right to do so. Theon wanted us to get drunk and then go down to the brothel. We would have embarrassed Father and your mother if we’d managed to do it.” When he says the word—the brothel—certain memories instantly rise up, ugly ones, but there along side them is the memory of he and Robb, as boys together, and he is able to hold them both, and not be swept under.

“Surely not you?” Sansa says, eyes widening. “The brothel?”

“I certainly had no intent of visiting a woman,” Jon says. “But I might have made the trip out with them. Who knows what trouble we might have caused, if you hadn’t found us.”

Sansa sighs and shakes her head.

“You were an awful one for tattling,” Arya says.

“Have the two of you made an arrangement to humiliate me tonight?” Sansa says.

Arya smiles. “But it’s what makes you good at holding the North,” she says. “You’re still concerned about doing what’s right. And you don’t miss anything.”

“Aye,” Jon says. “Good qualities, for the Warden of the North.” He bears child-Sansa no grudges. The gods know, they were all different people, then.

Sansa looks appeased. “Still,” she says. “It ought to be you.”

The words somehow hurt Jon and comfort him at once. “I’m the King, remember?” he says. “Do you think that might be enough?”

“We need to talk to you, about your wife,” says Arya. An abrupt change, and Jon senses from her face that, whatever she is about to say next, he isn’t going to like.

“Arya,” Sansa warns.

“She’s not being faithful to you, your Dragon Queen. She takes another man into her bed.”

Issued from Arya, the words are a blast of cold air. They freeze Jon. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes. He gazes down into his cup, trying to think of what he might possibly say. His sisters are almost unbelievably bold, each unyielding as the next, and he doesn’t expect them to begin to understand a thing like this.

“I told you not to tell him,” Sansa said. “That it would be too painful.”

“Jon is strong. He can handle the truth. And he deserves it,” Arya says.

“I know she is,” Jon says, before a fight can break out between his sisters. “I told her she could.”

“She asked for your permission?” Sansa says, appalled. “To do that to you?”

“No, she didn’t ask,” Jon says. No idea if this makes the situation better, or worse, in their eyes. “I went to Tyrion and gave him my approval.”

He sees his sisters’ eyes meeting, knows they speak to each other silently through gazes, as women do, and sisters especially.

"Why?” says Arya.

“I can’t give her what she deserves,” Jon says.

It’s an uncomfortable discussion to have with ones sisters. But Jon has no choice other than to trust them, and hope they might begin to understand.

“Because of what they did to you,” Sansa says, in that commanding way of hers. So much like Her Grace, it’s uncanny sometimes. “Euron. And Ramsay.”

His sisters know. After he was freed by the Wildlings, his condition was too poor to be able to hide it from those closest to him. They had drawn a little fortress around him, Sansa and Tormund and Ser Davos and Ser Brienne, and sheltered him, as much as they could. Then they’d gathered what they could of the North and taken Winterfell back, and sometimes Jon still can’t believe he survived it. Any of it. He nods.

“But you must be having sex with her,” Arya says bluntly, leaving Jon to wonder once again exactly what Arya has seen of the world to lend her such comfort under such conditions. He has never seen anything faze her. “Or she’d dismiss you. She wants an heir. It’s your job to give her one.”

“Aye, it is,” Jon says. “I can perform my duty. I just can’t give her anything beyond that. She’s a dragon queen,” he says. “She wants passion. Love. She should have it. I’m—“ Jon searches for a word. “Changed. It changed me, what happened.”  
  
There is a heavy silence until at last Sansa speaks. “I understand. I know what Ramsay does, to people.”

It is a heavy hurt, just to remember. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you,” Jon says, his voice coming out rough.

“No one can protect anyone,” Sansa says.

“That’s not true,” Arya says, looking from one of them to the other. “Jon protected you.”

“What?” Sansa says.

“It doesn’t matter-“

“You don’t know? Everything Jon suffered, everything they subjected him to—he did it so they wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Arya,” Jon says, raising his voice. He sounds like their father, scolding, he realizes, but he can’t help it.

“She should know.”

“Sansa had nothing to do with it. They only had you toward the end, with Ramsay,” he says, turning to his other sister, who is disturbed by this information, clearly. “When it wasn’t you, it was another slave, or a child they would kidnap and hold over me. It didn’t matter who it was. Whether they’d had you or not, they would have found a way to make me obey them. None of it had anything to do with you.”

Sansa hides it well, her distress, but also well does Jon know her. Her face is stricken, bluish-pale. “I’m so sorry, Jon. I didn’t know about that.”

Jon shakes his head. “It’s over now. And it was nothing to do with you,” he reiterates.

“It did have to do with me, though, didn’t it? After I disfigured Ramsay, he had a special desire to hurt our family. He took that all out on you. We know he did.”

It pains him, that Sansa has learned the things she’s learned, has known torture, and rape, but it can’t be changed, now. Any of it. “Ramsay would have done the same to anyone. Look at what he did to Theon. It’s useless to think there’s anything anyone could have done differently to have prevented it. Believe me.”

“She should know, at least,” Arya says, finally. “Your wife. She should know what they did to you.”

Jon shakes his head. “I don’t want anyone to know.”

“Why?” Arya says. “There’s no shame in surviving what you survived.”

In moments like this, it’s an effort even to force his own voice out. But he does. “It’s unspeakable, Arya. The things they did to me. I have no desire to give an account, not to anyone. Especially not to my wife.”

“He did unspeakable things to Sansa,” Arya says. “And she’s made no attempt to hide it.”

“Sansa’s a woman,” Jon says. “Everyone understands that men inflict such horrors upon women.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to diminish what you survived. I respect you greatly, Sansa. You must know that. There’s no one I hold in higher regard than you and Arya. You’ve been stronger than I. Both of you.”

Sansa raises her chin. “I never want any man to touch me. Ever again. What Ramsay did to me ruined that part of me. Even after I watched his dogs rip him limb from limb. So I understand why you feel the way you do. I even understand telling your wife to take a lover to give you a reprieve from the physical duties of a king. But your Queen—“

“She’s your Queen, too,” Jon says.

Sansa holds his gaze, her eyes hard. At last she nods her head. “Our Queen should know. You need to tell her.”

Jon sighs heavily, looks at the stones beneath him. At just the thought of telling Her Grace, his insides turn to a roiling sea.

“I’ll find Euron,” Arya says. “And I’ll kill him. Or I’ll bring him to you, so you can do it. Whatever you’d like.”

“No,” Jon says, his gut twisting with what he tells himself is fury, and not some deeper, involuntary response. Not fear. “Arya, you won’t. You won’t go near him. He’s incredibly dangerous—“

“I’m incredibly dangerous,” Arya says, tilting her head.

“No,” Jon says, slamming his fist down upon the table. His sisters go still. They have never seen him thus, he knows—violent with anger—outside the field of battle. Certainly not in a comfortable chamber while drinking together. “You won’t go near him. I forbid it.”

Arya quirks an eyebrow at him. “As my King?”

He won’t do that—won’t lord his position as King by marriage over her, and she knows he won’t. He takes a deep breath, and then another, because he knows that inside him there is still a beast that might snap, might go wild, a beast that wants to tear things limb from limb, and he won’t unleash it here, with his sisters. “Would it stop you?” he says at last.

“No. I’d just be quieter about it.”

“Arya,” he says. A plea. He has to make her understand. “Euron was insane. I don’t believe he’s still alive, but if he is, no one can match him.”

“Perfect,” Arya says.

“No,” Jon says. “This is bigger than all that. He’s much more than your game.”

“You know too little of her game, brother,” Sansa says.

Jon turns to her. “You can’t possibly support this.”

“You haven’t seen her do it. It’s unlike anything you could imagine. She can be anyone. She can kill anyone.”

“Euron has a sight,” Jon says, reluctantly. This, of all things, he had hoped to keep to himself. “He can see things.”

“What sort of things?” asks Arya.

“Things he shouldn’t be able to see. Things beyond what’s in front of him.” He forces himself to tell them, only because they need to know. Sets his shame aside because the lack of knowing could kill them. “He used to see through me.”

“Like Bran did?” says Sansa.

“Aye,” Jon says. “Like Bran. When I was with Ramsay, Euron could enter into me. See through my eyes. Watch what Ramsay did to me. And speak to me, even. From inside.”

More than any of the torture Euron had submitted Jon to, this had undone him the most. This had been the thing that had nearly broken him--that, for a time shortly after leaving him, Euron was able to penetrate Jon’s mind. To violate Jon’s consciousness. The things Euron did to his body, Jon had sustained. He knew how to live with physical pain. But when Euron had crossed into his mind, robbing Jon from any barrier he had from the man at all—he had nearly gone insane. Nearly let himself fade away into some murky depth, where, if he couldn’t even find himself, at least neither could Euron.

“Could he be doing it now?” Arya asks.

“I felt it, when he’d do it.” Jon says. “I could feel him in me. Sometimes I could force him out. I haven’t felt it in a long time. That’s why I think he’s dead.”

“What if he isn’t? What if you just stopped feeling it?” Arya says.

Jon shakes his head. He’s aware of the implications—the danger they’d all be in if Euron could be in Jon’s consciousness, somehow. “He enjoyed tormenting me,” Jon says. “If he was here, he’d want me to know it.”

“The things Ramsay did to me,” Sansa says, “I felt in my body for months and months. But to have him in your mind . . .”

Jon feels this knowledge land physically inside his body, in places where the skin and bones and nerves remember, even though they no longer bleed. The body remembers everything. “It was different for me,” he says. “I healed.” They look at him, questioning. “I healed too quickly. Something changed about me, when I came back.”

“So every day you would feel him in you anew,” Sansa says.

Jon nods at this. He would choose to spare his sisters, from such details, but he knows Sansa and Arya too well, knows what a force they are, especially together. How they will lend their strength to one another and dig in until nothing can stop them. Some part of him smiles at that, even here, even now.

“What do you think your wife would do, if you told her?” Sansa asks.

“That’s not what stops me, what she might do,” he said. “Tyrion says she’d set me aside, that the Crown would lose the North, but I don't care about any of that.” He pauses, breathes, then tells them the truth: “It’s the knowledge of it, in her eyes. I don’t want to see it there, as I see it in yours, even now. I don’t want her to look at me, the way people look at you, once they know.

Arya and Sansa’s eyes meet.

“We won’t speak of it again, then,” Arya says. “We won’t even think of it.”

Jon nods his gratitude. Surprising himself, he reaches for Arya’s mug of ale.

“Give me that,” he says. He supposes he could manage a cup.

She hands it over. “It’s about time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry--Bran is dead. When Sansa asks Jon if he sees things "Like Bran" does, she means it is the past tense. I initially had kept him alive and he was so annoying to write. So Bran is dead here! A previous chapter did have Tyrion remarking to Jon that he had no surviving brothers, but it was an easy detail to forget.


	9. Would You Leave Me, If I Told You What I've Become

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: the conversation with Tormund at the feast contains discussion of rape in some detail.
> 
> It's going to be more than 10 chapters. I don't want to say how long because I don't know. But longer than 10!!

“And how are your siblings faring, Your Grace?” Tyrion asks him at council.

“Well, thank you, my Lord Hand,” Jon says. They are seated around the table in the white light of a winter afternoon.

“Good. I still think it might be entertaining to organize a joust—“

“Seven Gods and Seven Hells,” snaps Her Grace. “How many times have I told you, at my court there will be no jousts? If you mention jousts to me one more time, I’m going to tell Sandor Clegane he can use you as his lance.”

Jon tries hard to maintain his composure. Both of his eyebrows shoot up, but he manages not to laugh outright. He brings his fist up to his mustache to cover his mouth, just in case. Unbelievably, Tyrion looks at him for support. Jon casts his eyes back to Her Grace, then says, with great seriousness,

“It sounds to me as if Her Grace truly does not want a joust, my lord. In light of that, I advise against one.”

It is not Jon that loses his composure, then, but Her Grace. She sputters, as if choking on something, and then proves unable to hold a smile back from her face. Jon keeps his mouth a straight line but he lets his eyes glint at her, and the Queen laughs. Immediately she touches her fingers to her lips, trying to stop herself, but she is unsuccessful. Her laugh is a merry little bubble. Jon loves to hear it, it is rare, and precious.

Tyrion sighs in exasperation. “I wasn’t—I understand, of course, that there shouldn’t be a JOUST,” he says, and Her Grace bursts into uncontrollable laughter, Jon finding himself unable to stop laughing with her. Missandei wears the tiniest smile and aims it down at the floor. Varys chuckles. Only Grey Worm and Tyrion remain un-amused.

“I see my king and queen are in no mood for serious affairs today,” Tyrion says. “With your leave, Your Graces, I shall excuse myself and seek your audience at a time more fitting.” Her Grace is laughing too hard to excuse him, so Jon does.

“Aye, Lord Hand,” he says, nodding.

“Come, old friend,” Varys says, falling in next to Tyrion as they take their leave. “I’m certain the Queen knows exactly who to seek out, should she ever change her mind.”

After everyone regains their composure, Her Grace calls an end to the meeting. In the hallway, Jon offers her his arm, and she takes it.

“Any plans for the afternoon?” he asks her. “Aside from humiliating your hand?”

“I’m sure I’ve told him at least ten times I don’t want any jousts,” she says, incredulous.

“It’s the old ways,” Jon says, smiling softly. “Deeply ingrained.”

“And exactly what I hope to change,” she says.

“Perhaps you need a younger Hand.”

It’s an offhand remark, but it causes Her Grace to pause, and turn to him. “Do you say that out of some design?”

“No,” he replies. “It’s just that Tyrion is part of an older generation. His instincts are always going to be for what he knows. Tyrion knows how to spin the wheel. You told me once you wanted to break the wheel. It seems someone younger might serve your purposes better.”

She studies his face. He returns her gaze, letting her scrutinize him, to see that he is in earnest.

“Hmm,” she says. She starts forward again, and Jon walks along with her. “Well. It happens that I have lately considered asking your sister.”

“Sansa?” Jon says, surprised.

“Yes. She’s very sharp. She grew up watching your father, and learned from his successes, and mistakes. And then she lived here, with Cersei,” Her Grace sighs, shakes her head. “As terrible as that and all that came after was for her, I’m certain it taught her many valuable lessons.”

“Sansa . . . “ Jon says slowly. The last time a Stark had gone south to be a Hand, he had lost his head. But their father had gone to a court full of vipers. This court was different. “Sansa would make an excellent Hand.”

“She would,” Her Grace agrees. “Unfortunately I’m certain she’d refuse the offer.”

“Likely,” Jon admits. “And even if she didn’t, who would hold the North?”

“Wouldn’t Arya?”

He breathes a laugh at this. “No. Not ever. Arya won’t be tied down to any place, or any person. She’s too wild.”

“You Starks are a maddening lot,” she says. “Every time I think I’ve understood something about you, the ground changes.”

“The North remembers,” Jon says reflexively.

“Thank the gods,” Her Grace says. “At least Sansa would remember that I don’t want any bloody jousts.”

“A joust?” a voice speaks from behind them. Jon and Her Grace turn to see Brienne of Tarth and Jaime Lannister, standing behind them in the hallway. “Forgive me, Your Graces,” she says, genuflecting. Next to her, Jaime does the same. “I did not mean to intrude.”

“You’re no intrusion, Ser Brienne,” Her Grace says. She casts her eye at Jaime, looks him up and down, and after a long pause, says, “Nor you,”

“Don’t honor me overmuch, Your Grace,” Ser Jaime says smoothly. “I’ll grow a large head.”

Brienne’s face is impassive. “Ser Jaime and I are headed out to ride,” she says. “Perhaps we shall bring our lances, if there is to be a joust.”

Her Grace’s mouth tightens, and Jon speaks before she can say something hot. “I’m afraid that’s just a rumor, started by your brother,” he says, turning to Jaime. “Though he meant no harm.”

“Is that so?” says Jaime. “My brother seems to do the most harm when he means it the least.” Brienne frowns at this. It is a statement with hidden claws. “I only mean to say that sometimes his mind gets the better of him. He is dedicated to you, Your Grace.”

Next to Jon, Her Grace sighs. She has little patience for this sort of mannered talk.

“Perhaps a ride should be good for us all,” Jon says. He turns to Her Grace. His mind suddenly flashes back, to a time that seems very long ago, when the Queen had mentioned wanting to ride with him. He regrets, now, that he never saw it through.

She looks at him, carefully. “Perhaps.”

“Excellent. Will you ride a creature with hooves, or a winged one, your grace?” Jaime asks.

“Do all Lannisters speak in such circles?” she says, her eyes still on Jon. “I believe I’ll ride a horse.”

Winter wind breaks across her face as she flies across an open plane, beside Jon. Jaime and Brienne are behind them. Courtly manners demand that they stay behind the king and queen. She is so tired of courtly manners, sometimes. So many little charades being carried out, every day, all around her.

Jon pulls ahead of her, at times, then falls back. If one set the trouble of their marital affairs aside—and admittedly, it is a monumental one—her relationship with Jon is one of the easier ones in her entire life. She looks over at him.

“Race,” she cries, over the pounding hooves.

Jon looks at her, then ahead to where, a few hundred yards away, a forest begins. He nods.

With a grin, Daenerys digs her heels into her courser, urging her on. Jon on his mount does the same. They are off. The speed makes cold air slam into her face, her hair whipping behind her. It is exhilarating—not as fast as a dragon, but something about the thud of the hooves, the sheer earthiness of it all, brings its own special thrill. They keep abreast for a moment, and then Jon pulls ahead. Though she urges her mount on, and on, he reaches the trees before her, slowing his horse to a canter, turning it in time to see Dany, pulling up second.

She smiles at him, panting. “A victory well earned, my lord. My congratulations.”

Jon nods at her solemnly. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’d never beat you on a dragon, but I’m glad to see I’m still superior on a horse.”

She takes umbrage at this. “Still superior?” she says, turning her horse, bringing it up alongside his. “I’m out of practice, on a horse. When we met, I could have bested you.”

She casts a sideways look at Jon. He is watching her, and at these words he raises his eyebrows mildly, says nothing.

“What? I could have. When we met, I was equal to you on the horse. I just haven’t ridden enough, these last months. I’ve been busy, you know. Ruling a Queendom.”

Jon nods solemnly. “Aye, Your Grace. No doubt you are correct, as you are the Queen. I defer to your knowledge, of course.” His expression is grave, but somehow that makes it clear he doesn’t mean it.

Dany’s mouth falls open and she lets out a little huff. She can’t believe his pure cheek.

“Khal Drogo said I was matchless on a horse,” she says, with a little toss of her head, straightening her back in the saddle.

Jon smiles. “I’m sure he did, Your Grace. After seeing how you react when told otherwise.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, her eyes widen, but Jon Snow is smiling at her and Daenerys can’t help but smile back. “You’re teasing me,” she says.

“Surely not,” Jon Snow says. “For me to tease Her Grace would be unforgivable.”

She is about to say that she would have him punished, in a wicked sort of way, but stops herself. He is so close, she can smell him—his particular scent of leather, and citrus, and myrrh. His black curls whip in the winter wind, held back from his face in a neat bun. She realizes that he has begun showing parts of himself to her that she hasn’t seen before, and she knows she must handle those parts gently.

“I would sooner forgive you for teasing me than for beating me on the horse,” she says, smiling. “Considering that, you have just pulled a very bold move, Jon Snow.” Jon lets out a little laugh.

“I was going to say that we should ride together more often,” he says. “But perhaps not, if that’s the case.”

“We can ride. You’ll just have to be very careful, when you agree to race.”

He nods at her, his eyes shining. When other men have looked at her this way, Daenerys has known they want to bed her. But there is something deeper, in Jon Snow’s gaze. Something larger than rude desire, something truer, and more pure. It is a gaze of such admiration that Daenerys actually finds it hard to hold herself still under it. She doesn’t feel quite worthy of it. Doesn’t feel she could live up to what she sees there.

“I might continue to beat you,” he warns, a wry sort of twist on his lips. “But I’ll never best you, Your Grace.”

With these words, their eyes lock on one another’s and something that is living and fragile and wild hangs there in the air between them. It is too much. It threatens to somehow shatter everything.

Jon looks away.

Daenerys keeps her eyes on him a moment, as Jaime and Brienne reach them and pull up alongside.

“A bold move, to beat your Queen,” Jaime Lannister says to Jon with a grin. Jon glances at her from under his eyebrows, a look that is almost coy.

“And what should he have done?” says Brienne, affronted. “Pulled back to spare her pride? Surely not.”

“Surely not,” agrees Daenerys.

“I don’t pull back to spare yours,” Brienne says, and Jaime lets out a bark of laughter.

“If you did, I should become very concerned,” he says, and then leans toward his wife, pulling her towards him, and kisses her, a feat they can manage, as they are both quite tall enough to cover the distance. It is a tender and beautiful moment, and it aches, in Dany, and she can’t look at Jon.

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne scolds after a moment, pulling away. “A shameful display, in front of our sovereigns. Forgive my husband, Your Graces.”

“Yes, forgive me,” says Jaime Lannister, with a lazy grin that makes it obvious he cares nothing for her forgiveness.

“No apologies are necessary,” Daenerys says warmly. But she notices that Ser Brienne is looking at Jon. She seems concerned. But then again, Ser Brienne always seemed concerned.

“Ser Brienne, would you ride back with me?” she says on impulse. “That is, if you will spare your wife, Ser Jaime.”

“I should think she’d be grateful you’re to spare her from me, Your Grace,” Jaime says. He nods at Jon. “My King? Shall we test our steeds?”

“Aye,” Jon smiles, and the two are off, galloping back across the plain.

Daenerys starts her mount, and Ser Brienne keeps astride with her, the two of them riding behind their husbands at a walk. The men are at a great distance from them in no time at all.

“I hope you and Ser Jaime are comfortable here,” Dany says.

“We are, Your Grace. Most comfortable.”

“Good. Ser Brienne, you were with my husband around the time of the Battle of the Bastards, were you not?”

This makes her uneasy, Daenerys can tell at once, but Brienne answers. “I wasn’t at that battle, Your Grace, though I wanted to be. Lady Sansa had an errand for me, at the time.”

“I see. But you knew him in those days, am I correct? The days leading up to, and following the battle?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I did.”

“And my husband, he was well?”

Brienne sighs, frowning heavily, looking straight ahead. “He was troubled, in those days, Your Grace. He had much concerning him. Lady Sansa had just been freed from Bolton and Littlefinger.”

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys repeats. “Yes. But my husband himself? He was troubled, you say?”

Brienne stops her horse and turns to Daenerys. Surprised, Dany also halts her horse, and looks at the knight.

“If you ask me questions about your husband, you put me in a most awkward position, Your Grace. You are my sovereign, and I feel honor bound to answer you. Yet your husband is also my sovereign, and I have known him now for some time, and seen him in many bold and brave deeds. I hope you can understand that it’s a matter of my honor, Your Grace. I could not choose between your questions and his privacy.”

Privacy. Does Brienne know something of Jon’s difficulties in the bedroom? But how could she, and why? Anger fills Dany, but she knows it isn’t fair. She knows Ser Brienne is rather like her husband, all her decisions made based upon honor, and she can’t ask her to betray that anymore than she could ask Grey Worm to stop fighting, or Drogon to stop breathing fire.

She pushes her anger aside. “I value your loyalty, Ser Brienne,” she says. “Both to me and to my husband. Shall we see if we can catch them?”

Relief on Ser Brienne’s face. They ride.

* * *

“Well,” Tormund says, slapping Jon so hard on his back, Jon nearly chokes on his ale. He’s been nursing the same mug all evening, it’s almost impressive that Tormund manages to accost him just as he takes one of his well-spaced-out sips. “You sure have made a mess of things here, haven’t you? I think the North suits you better. You ought to come back with me.”

“Come back with you, aye? And just forget about being King?”

“Aye,” Tormund laughs. “Come be King beyond the wall. We’ll have you.”

Jon smiles at this. “And what’s this mess I’ve made, already? The Seven Kingdoms are far better off now than they were under the last several reigns.”

“Oh I’m sure your Westeros is doing well enough,” Tormund said. “Countries don’t need nearly as much ruling as their rulers seem to think they do. No, I’m not talking about your Kingdom, lad,” He says, and as he does he raises a bushy red eyebrow at Jon, both questioning and accusatory.

Jon sighs. He turns away from the table of soldiers and men of lesser houses, where he’s been enjoying listening to conversation that isn’t about war, or grains, or his sexual affairs, and walks with Tormund to a quieter table in the corner, where it’s dark, the light from the great hearth not stretching quite this far. The court is lively, these days, with visitors, and there is regular feasting and dancing. Tonight they are all here, all of the Keep, it seems, crowded into the great hall enjoying ale and wine and meat pies and cheese and tray upon tray of sweet things. Sometimes, sitting at the high table, Jon will have a moment, a memory, of being young and banished to the very back of the hall, watching his brothers and sisters merry together at the front, Robb and Arya, Sansa and Bran. Even little Rickon. If he’d had any idea, back then, what it felt like to be the King, he would have felt differently about his position in the back.

“What have you heard?” Jon asks the moment they’ve sat, not wanting to hear the answer.

“That your dragon queen wife has done what every bloody ruler of your kingdoms before her has.”

This is hard to take. Jon frowns down into his cup, then sets it aside from him, on the table. It’s not that he expected no one to know about it. People will know, of course It’s not that he even feels it will be unbearable, if people do. Jon has suffered far worse. It’s the need to explain to those he loves the reason for it. Let the bloody kingdoms know the queen keeps a lover. Just let him keep to himself the reasons why.

“How far has it traveled?” he asks Tormund.

“Couldn’t say, but not all that far. It’s not as if folk are speaking of it.”

“Then how did—“ Jon stops, realization sinking in.

“Your kissed by fire sister.”

“Sansa.”

“That’s the one.” Tormund says it like he knows how much it’s going to frustrate Jon. “She was worried about you. Seems like with reason. Though I told her surely you’re not expected to remain singular to your dragon wife, considering. This is just the way it is, with kings and queens, I’m told. You southerners are ridiculous about all these things, anyway. Free Folk bed whoever they want.”

“That’s not the issue,” Jon says. “I don’t want to bed someone else. I don’t want to bed anyone.”

Hearing himself say it so bluntly shocks Jon for a moment. Then the shock is gone, and there is gust of relief. Tormund takes a great swig of ale and sets it down, nodding, foam dripping from his mustache. He looks at Jon and Jon expects him to make a joke, say something bold or blunt. But instead, Tormund clears his throat, and looks at Jon considering.

“Before we rescued you from that Bolton tiny-cocked mother fucker,” Tormund says, and Jon’s chest hitches in, but his friend keeps going, “we had to spend days watching the castle. There were 6 of us there to get you out, and 300 of them, so we had to be smart about it.”

Jon’s heart pounds. He swallows, and waits to hear what he knows Tormund is about to tell him.

“We watched. We had to, and we saw. What they were doing to you, little Crow.”

There is a tenderness in his friend’s voice that undoes Jon, almost completely, in an instant. “Tormund,” he breathes, wanting to stop it.

“What I saw—it should have killed you. It would have killed a lesser man. It would have killed _me_, what that man was doing to you, and having done. It was a torture to watch it, but nothing compared to what it was like to live it, aye. And there was a moment,” Tormund’s voice grows upsettingly thick, “When he took you with that—with what he was taking you with, and I heard you scream. There was a moment when I thought about putting an arrow through your heart.”

“You should have,” Jon says to the floor.

“Aye. I should have. I know that. The only reason I didn’t was because I knew that what he was doing to you wouldn’t kill you, because I’d been watching him do it for two days, and I wanted to see you again. See you live past that. But the pain you were in—the torture—I should have ended it. I’m sorry.”

Jon shakes his head. How can he condemn his friend for failing to kill him?

“I needed to live,” Jon says weakly. “To defeat the dead. To see it through.”

“Needed to or not, you did live, that’s the point,” Tormund says. “And now here you are. King of the bloody seven kingdoms. Husband to the Dragon Queen.”

“Aye. And I can’t—can’t love her.”

“You love her. You just can’t make love to her, hmm?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

Jon feels his cheeks flush, and there’s nothing he can do beyond shake his head, looking away again.

“I seen you getting fucked by a dozen men and you’re going to be coy with me about this? Ah, but you were coy about such matters from the day I met you. I’ll say it for you, then. You can’t fuck your wife without getting a little battle-hot. And you don’t want to hurt her, so that makes you go cold. Shuts of certain, eh, flows. Isn’t that so?”

Jon swallows. Nods.

“And she knows what’s happened to you? And doesn’t care?”

“She doesn’t know,” Jon says.

Tormund frowns at this. Takes another long swallow of ale, and looks around for more. “I’ve had so many lovers. More than a sweet boy like you could ever imagine. Ha! I know how to make a woman come so hard she’ll never get mad at me for another thing again,” he says, and Jon notices how he casts a low glance at Brienne of Tarth with these words. “I know a thing or two about living with women, as well. Aye, believe it or not. Women get sore mad when you hide things from them. That scar right across my arse? It ain’t from the she-bear, like I told you. No, little Crow. It seems to me that the problem isn’t what happened to you. What’s that, to be ashamed of? I was once held captive by Thenns for three nights, and they took me on every one. Of course they did,” he says, at Jon’s look of surprise. “Doesn’t compare to what happened to you, now. Thenns have tiny peckers, for one. Barely felt a thing. It’s not something to try to hide, is what I’m saying. Especially not from your wife.”

“They put me in a brothel,” Jon says, the words tearing from his mouth in a ragged breath. He barely gets it out, but once he does, it is easier to breathe.

Tormund raises an eyebrow. “A whore house?”

Jon nods, feeling sick. He can’t believe he’s said it.

“Well. I’m sorry for that, my friend. But what choice did you have? Say you’d had your hands on a sword. And been able to fight your way out, killed every one of those dirty fuckers. What would they have done, for that?”

“Killed Sansa,” Jon admits. “Ramsay had her, and he would have killed her.”

“Well fuck me,” Tormund says. “ You shouldn’t be keeping this like some terrible secret. You ought to be writing songs about it and singing it from the rooftops! Let the people of Westeros know your brave deeds.” Tormund takes a sip of ale. “And let your wife.”

Jon takes a sip of his own ale, and looks for his wife. As difficult as it is to believe, sometimes just the sight of her eases him, when he is tense. He likes just to see her.

But her seat is empty. Missandei is there, but the Queen is gone.

Jon looks away.

“Come on,” Tormund slaps his back. “Go make up something to say to your Hand fellow so that I can plant myself by the giant woman.”

“Tormund, she’s married,” Jon says. Tormund gives him a look, and the irony of what Jon has just said strikes them both. And to his surprise, Jon finds, he can actually laugh.

* * *

The next evening, after dinner but before she undresses, Daenerys tells Missandei she should take the evening to herself. Then she goes to her husband’s chambers and knocks on the door.

In a moment, he opens it, and his face displays something that is so tender—some sort of concern, mixed with fear—that she has to stop herself from reaching out to him, holding him.

He would not want that.

“Your grace,” she says. “I wondered if I might have a word.”

“Of course,” says Jon. She enters his chambers, spartan as they are. Sits by the fire.

“It seems you’re enjoying our visitors well enough,” Dany says, smiling.

“Aye. The Free Folk aren’t much for manners, I’m afraid.”

“It’s refreshing, though, isn’t it? Not to be treated with such delicate gloves?” She raises an eyebrow. “Did you worry I might have Tormund executed when he said what he did?”

A huff of laughter. “Aye. For a moment, perhaps.”

She is attempting to keep things light, teasing. But she can see him beginning to worry about what exactly she has come to his chamber for, and so she spares him and gets on with it.

“I’ve come to discuss the future of our marriage,” she says.

His face pales. At the mention of marriage, she loses sight of the man who teased her from his horse. “All right,” he agrees quietly, and sits across from her.

She wants to do something to draw that other man back, but the only merciful thing to do now is to proceed. “Tyrion and I agree that to end the marriage altogether would be unwise. I know you would not speak ill of me,” she says, as he opens his mouth to reassure her of exactly this. “But it won’t matter what you say, to your Northerners. If I put their king aside, they will never forget the insult. So we must find a way to live with what we have.” She tries to infuse her next words with as much gentleness as possible, hoping he will understand. She is trying to spare him. “It seems clear to me now that a sexless marriage would suit you best, my lord. Would bring you the most peace.”

Jon’s face collapses into more pain that Daenerys has seen it in since she told him she was going to move his chambers.

“It’s all right,” she hurries to say. “I can accept this. You needn’t feel badly about it.”

“You shouldn’t have to accept this,” he says. And then—“I wasn’t always this way.”

Daenerys’ breath holds in her throat. Stops there. She waits.

Jon looks at her. Says nothing.

“But something changed you?” Daenerys ventures.

“Aye. Something changed me.”

“Would you tell me what?”

Jon doesn’t answer.

She decides to press, to see if she can draw something from him, at last. “The scars, on your back. What are they from?”

“War,” he says to the stones on the floor. “All soldiers have scars.”

“You have scars from a whip. Like the ones I’ve seen on slaves.”

He looks up at her from beneath his brow. “Your grace, please.”

She ignores the plea. Perhaps it is cruel, but she does. “Did someone flog you?”

He sighs, a little sound of defeat. “Aye. I was on a ship. It’s a common punishment, for sailors.”

“You were a sailor?” she asks, confused. What could this good man have possibly done to warrant such a punishment?

“No. A captive, for a short time. Please, Your grace. Let us not speak of it now. You came to speak to me of our marriage. I don’t wish it to be a sexless one for you. That’s why I . . .didn’t interfere.”

The boldness of this statement, which brings out before them something they both know is there, but have been pretending not to see, nearly takes Dany’s breath away. To begin to explain herself now, she thinks, would be insulting. It would sound like she was trying to excuse herself. She won't ask that of him. So she decides to stick to the subject she came to him for in the first place. “I want an heir. I want _your_ heir. But I won’t hurt you anymore, in pursuit of it.”

“You haven’t—“ Jon says, searching for words. “You’re not trying, for an heir, with Commander Naharis?”

Daenerys can only blink, stunned by his frankness, the ease with which he mentions her lover’s name. 

“You don’t deserve a sexless marriage,” he says at her bewildered expression. “So I chose discretion.”

Dany is filled with a feeling that is so tender it cannot be touched, something that is like a bruise being pushed, but also like a release of held back waters, both at once. Her eyes prick as if she might cry, and she blinks rapidly, trying not to. Jon has just shown to her a sort of selflessness that she has so rarely known, and that is painful, somehow.

“I have always ensured there is no possibility of an heir with Daario,” she says, anxious for him to understand this. “I don’t want his child, Jon. I want yours. But just as much as I want that, I don’t want to do to you what was done to me. It’s a terrible situation for us both, isn’t it? I thought together we might make a plan. Decide on a course of action that could make all of it more tolerable.”

Jon nods. Then he takes a deep breath, and says something that shocks her.

“I would rather attempt to have a child with you, your grace, than to leave you no choice but to attempt one with Commander Naharis. If you would agree to it, of course.”

“Jon,” she begins. This sounds unwise. She hasn’t forgotten, at all, what Jon was like. How much pain he seemed to be in when she bedded him. Nor has she forgotten how upsetting it was for herself, to realize she was doing to him what had been done to her.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” Jon says. “You can trust me for that, at least.”

She wants this so badly, it feels wrong to let herself have it. It doesn’t seem like it could possibly be what he wants. But she knows how important this man’s word is to him. “Are you certain?”

“I’m certain.”

“Because there are other ways,” she says, though it hurts to say it to him.

“I’m certain,” he says, and his voice is strong.

“All right,” Daenerys says. Gathering herself up, putting her Queenly mask back on. She has taken it off for him, but this ground they are on is much easier to tread behind it. “How would you like to proceed?”

This is too much to ask, she sees. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. So she takes over for him.

“I am told there are certain days every moon that a woman is most likely to conceive. I shall send for you on those nights only. And Jon—if on such a night you should find yourself less willing, perhaps, than other nights, and do not wish to join with me, you will tell me. That_ is_ a command.”

“Yes, your grace,” Jon says, obedient, as always, to her commands.

“Anything I can do to make this easier for you, I will. Some men prefer to take their wives on their bellies,” she says, because she finds she can say anything, when she wears this queen’s mask, and not flinch. “Would you like that?”

His eyes widen in shock. “What? No, your grace.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to shock you. I just want you to understand that I’m willing to make any adaptations you might find helpful.”

“Thank you,” Jon says. “But no, my Queen. That isn’t my particular concern.”

She raises an eyebrow, a question, waits to see if he will continue. Any question she asks he might take as some sort of order, and she doesn’t want to do that to him.

Jon Snow does not continue.

“Very well,” she says. “The wise woman I’ve seen says conditions shall be most favourable for conception five or six nights from now. If you change your mind, please tell me. I beg of you.”

Jon’s eyes are dark and deep. “I will, your grace.”

With that, Dany leaves him in his chambers, leaves him to whatever distractions he pursues, in the evenings. She knows not what they are, but she couldn’t judge him for anything. Not now.

* * *

Jon wakes in the night, and something is wrong. His body is writhing, but not in pain. In anger. It feels like every nerve in his body is alive and crawling, like something inside of him is trying to force its way out, trying to split him open. It is immediately overwhelming. He needs to run. He needs to _fight. _

Ghost sits up and whines. Jon gets out of bed and throws on a shirt, breeches, boots. He wants to howl. Let a guttural cry rip from his chest and then run for the woods. His body is screaming for movement and he nearly throws himself into Ghost and runs. Instead, he opens his door and storms down the hall with purpose, night guards standing aside for him. He stalks to the room where Her Grace has situated Tormund. He pounds on the door and hears a female voice laughing, saying something.

_This is stupid._ Jon is about to leave, but the door opens and there is Tormund, naked from head to toe, looking at him. He takes in Jon’s face. Jon opens his mouth to speak, but Tormund is already nodding. “Meet me in the yard, eh? Unless you want to give the Keep even more to talk about?”

Jon doesn’t reply. He only nods his head, and leaves, striding back through the halls of the Keep, making his way out to the pitch. He half expects someone to stop him, but no one does. He is the King. There isn’t a soul alive that would try to tell him what to do—except his wife. And perhaps Tyrion. “Please, get a steward to light more of the torches,” he says to the guards, surprised at how rough his own voice is, how like a growl. The guards answer with a ‘Yes, Your Grace’, and hurry to do as Jon has asked.

He waits for Tormund, then, in the near-dark. There is only moonlight and torchlight here. As the minutes pass, Jon begins to think better of himself, to feel stupid. Did he actually just interrupt whatever fun his friend might be having to bid him here to spar with him? In the dark? He hears footsteps behind him and turns to tell Tormund he’s sorry. But there isn’t time. The great bear of a man isn’t merely walking toward him, he is bearing down upon him, with his sword raised for battle.

When Jon sees him, Tormund quickens his step. “Get your sword up,” he barks, and Jon does, just in time to meet the swing of Tormund’s blade. Steel on steel rings in the night.

Tormund whirls back and brings his sword around in a full circle, swinging at him again, and then they are off. Jon is forced to take the defensive and Tormund wages a brutal attack. When Jon realizes his friend isn’t going to hold back on him, something so deep it is practically bottomless gives within him, and he surrenders himself over to battle. The world drops away, all thoughts drop away, so that he is only movement and muscle, instinct and flow. Jon roars, the rage of battle taking over him—and so does Tormund, roars back, and then he catches Jon off guard, kicking him hard in the gut. Jon goes flying backward. He rolls, gets his feet back under him, and charges at him. Tormund defends against his charge, and then he whirls and somehow knocks Jon to the ground. Jon lands hard on his arse, but he manages to hold onto Longclaw. He scrambles to get back up, because Tormund is bearing down on him.

Jon parries the thrust, and then he attacks, screaming, something from his very depths ripping all the way up his chest and out through his throat. He swings, and swings, and swings at Tormund, forcing his friend back, and Tormund lets him attack—blocks each blow, but allows Jon to come at him, with all the force he desires. Jon backs him all the way up to the edge of the practice yard, until he has Tormund against the railing, and there is no where else to go, there is no where else to strike at, to fight. Then Tormund drops his sword, and opens his arms, and Jon falls into them. His body is still roaring to fight, and without meaning to, he throws his free fist at him, thudding it into Tormund’s arm.

“All right, lad,” Tormund says. “All right.”

Jon lets Tormund embrace him. The way he holds Sansa and Arya. Lets his friend hold him there, for a long moment, as the rage washes off of him, and turns to something else.

Then he pushes back, away from Tormund, gathering himself, drawing in bracing breaths. He searches Tormund’s face and sees no judgment there, nor surprise, really. Tormund just waits to see what Jon will do next.

“I needed to fight,” he says simply.

“Aye, you did. Two cures for most things, I find,” Tormund says. “Fighting and fucking. The third is ale, but that creates more things that need curing, usually. Best to go with the first two.”

Jon laughs, and draws up Longclaw. “Sorry to interrupt one.”

“Ah, well, little Crow. You gave me the other. And there’s always more where fucking comes from, eh?” he says, slapping Jon on the back. “Come on, wolf. Let’s howl at the moon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this update was originally going to be 11,000 words, but I thought that was too long, so I split it up, and that's better for the pacing, anyway. I'm telling you this to say: PLEASE HANG IN THERE WITH ME. Just hang in there, y'all. Catch my drift? 
> 
> I also want to say that I am truly honored by the support and the audience this fic is receiving. You all are amazing. I feel so grateful for you all, and it is a privilege to have you reading and commenting on this work. Thank you.


	10. It's Always Darkest

“You’re not fighting me with your full strength,” Arya says. “Don’t you think that’s insulting?”

She has just dodged an attack of Jon’s and managed to whirl, and get behind him. Jon turns, flexing his grip on the practice sword.

“I am,” he says.

“No you’re not,” Arya says, and lunges at him. Jon parries the first blow, the second, and the third, but the way Arya moves, it’s like swinging at a hummingbird. Her strikes come too quickly, one after the other, putting him at a disadvantage, with the dulled greatsword.

She gets behind him again, and he turns, arcing the sword toward her in what would be a killing blow—because for some reason Arya’s back is still to him—and then she seems to feel the blow coming, rolls, and is in a blink too far away for him to reach.

They are out in the yard. Sansa is watching, and Ser Brienne, and Ser Jaime. It is a mild day, with sun, and they are all taking turns sparring, except for Sansa, who can’t be goaded into taking up a sword, not even by Jon.

“I want you to teach these techniques to the girls,” he says, dropping the sword to his side. “They’re well suited, for your water dancing. Many of them.”

“I could start,” Arya says, and there is hidden knowledge in her eyes, as always. “But I can’t give them the training I had.”

“What did you learn that you can’t pass on?” he asks.

“How to fight when you can’t see.”

Jon lets out a little laugh, but her face remains serious, and he realizes she isn’t joking. He looks at Sansa, and she smiles. “You’re not the only one who keeps secrets,” Sansa says.

They leave him no peace, his sisters, and it amuses him and frustrates him in equal measure. “Sansa,” he says pleadingly. Brienne and Jaime have their heads bowed in conversation and he doesn’t believe they’ve noticed anything else around them for some time, but he would still appreciate a measure of discretion from his sister. She laughs a little, at his frustration, and he can’t find it in himself to be angry with her—it is such a relief, to see Sansa laugh.

Before either one of them can reply, however, there comes a ring of male voices engaged in bawdy conversation, and then Daario Naharis and three of his Second Sons walk into the fighting yard.

_Dear gods_. Jon looks to his sisters to try to temper them, while knowing immediately that there is nothing he can do, and that he might as well surrender to whatever is about to happen. Daario and his men note him there, and genuflect, all four offering due respect.

“Your Grace,” Daario says. “Forgive us. We thought the pitch to be free.”

“Commander Naharis. Stallio,” he nods. “Harar. And—“

“Tregano, my lord,” the man provides.

“Tregano,” Jon repeats. These names from the Free Cities are so elaborate, difficult to remember, though Jon tries to remember the names of their soldiers—even the Second Sons.

“My lord?” Sansa says sharply. “You’re speaking to the King.”

Jon draws in a long breath, resigned, as Tregano turns to Sansa, and bows. “My apologies, Lady Stark,” he says. “But he isn’t my king.”

“He isn’t?” Arya says. “Aren’t you a Second Son?”

“Yes, my lady-“

“An army which is sworn to Queen Daenerys.” Arya says.

“Yes, but—“

“He’s your king,” Daario says. “Apologize.”

Tregano swallows his pride, and goes down on one knee.

“My humblest apologies, Your Grace,” he says. “I have pledged my sword to the Queen, and I pledge it also to you.”

None of this was necessary, and Jon sends a hard look at Arya to tell her so. Arya only quirks one eyebrow, amused. Then the two other men go down on their knee, to do the same—Stallio, and Harar.

“Thank you,” Jon says solemnly, because he has not other choice. “You may rise.”

“The pitch is in use,” Arya says. “But you can spar me, if you’d like.”

With a very particular and heightened sensation of dread dropping down into his gut, Jon realizes that Arya is talking to Daario.

Daario’s soldiers chuckle, as if Arya has made a joke. Arya and Sans both ignore this, their faces mild. Daario, at least, has greater sense than to laugh. He bows his head.

“I don’t wish to interrupt His Grace and the royal family,” he says. “We’ll return later.”

“Don’t wish to interrupt,” Sansa says. “Well, you already have, haven’t you? Now you wish to further insult the king’s sister by refusing to spar with her because she’s a girl?”

“The lady Arya Stark defeated the Night’s King at the Battle of Winterfell,” Daario says. “Surely she could easily defeat me. I don’t defer because she’s a girl, Lady Stark, nor because I find dishonor in being defeated by one.”

“Why, then?” Arya says. They are like a dual assault, his sisters. One on top of the other, always hitting from two sides so that a man never knows which way to turn. It causes Daario to slip. He glances at Jon, giving himself away.

“What, the king?” Arya says. “He doesn’t mind. Why would he mind?”

“You don’t mind, do you, Jon?” Sansa says. “I mean, you wouldn’t care, anyway, would you, Commander Naharis? What the king minded, or not?”

Jon turns to Sansa, displeased and defeated. Beside her, Jaime and Brienne are watching the interaction closely. Brienne wears a confused frown, but Jaime is alert to the deeper undertones moving about them, his eyes sharp, wary.

“Lady Arya and Commander Naharis are free to do as they choose,” Jon says, to Sansa, his voice hard. “No one here needs my permission for anything.”

“Excellent. It’s settled then,” Arya says, and she flourishes Needle.

Daario sends another look at Jon, and Jon meets his gaze mildly, his face impassive. Then Naharis enters the sparring ring, drawing a practice sword for the arakh.

“I don’t spar with practice swords,” Arya says.

“I do,” Daario says. “Though if it pleases you, I’ll use my real arakh.”

Arya shrugs. “Use whatever you want. It seems you already do.”

“Just for once, be careful where you put it,” Sansa drawls. “Your blade.”

That’s all Jon can take. He throws his sword down into the dirt, turns, and strides from the courtyard, ignoring the sound of Arya’s Needle meeting Daario’s arakh behind him.

He finds Her Grace in her chambers, taking a quiet moment to herself. He wonders if there’s any way she knows her lover is down in the yard sparing Jon’s youngest sister.

“Jon,” she says, and smiles at him as he enters. She is sitting by the fire, with a book. “There are so many people at court, these days. I thought I would take a break. It’s incredible, isn’t it? To be able to read thousands of years of your family’s history?”

She holds up the tome she’s reading—a history of the Targaryen family. “Aye,” he agrees. “Your family has a storied history.”

Her expression shifts, remembering his bastard birth, his story, which will never be complete. “As do the Starks,” she says. “And who knows what history lies on your mother’s side. Perhaps there is even a Targaryen hidden in your ancestry.” She smiles at the thought.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Jon says, distracted. She is lovely in her dress of violet velvet, her hair elaborately braided, her face warm in the firelight. Lately he finds himself lingering over the perfection of her skin, like milk, like the moon. Not only is the queen unburnt, she is unscathed, unscarred, her skin the same pale tone as Jon’s, but completely unmarred, like a mirror that removes all blemishes. He imagines sitting next to her, by the fire. Reading a book, as he has taken to reading alone when his wife is with Naharis. It is a warm image, but chilled by Jon’s knowledge of the great secret that lies between them, the presence of what he has kept from her. He can’t know her, not truly, without letting her know him. This intimate image, of the two of them in companionable silence, can never be more than a thought, if he doesn’t let her see who he is. He knows that whatever they manage to build, with this lie between them, it will all be false. Because of him.

“May I sit, Your Grace?”

“Of course,” she says, and he doesn’t miss the surprise on her face. But she seems amiable in it, rather than troubled.

He settles into the chair across from her. “I’ve come to discuss something with you, Your Grace.”

“All right,” she says encouragingly.

“It’s been five nights since we last spoke of such matters, and I wanted to see if I ought to come to you, tomorrow night.”

She nods at him, a bit warily, perhaps. “Two nights hence, would be ideal. If you are amenable to that, my lord.”

“I am,” Jon says.

“Are you certain?” she asks. Jon thinks she senses there is more, but doesn’t know how to access it. Neither does he.

“I’m certain.”

“All right. Two nights hence, then. Unless you should change your mind, in which case you will let me know.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jon leans toward her, resting his elbows on his knees, folding his hands before him. “I also wanted to tell you that I’ve been considering ways I might ease these encounters, between us.”

There is a pause. The queen waits.

As the silence stretches on, Jon considers saying more. Considers what it might be like to tell her, how he might begin. How would he even start? _I was raped. Often. I was tortured. I was murdered. I came back. _He finds he can only look at her.

“And what ideas have come to you, Your Grace?” she says at last. She doesn’t call him that often, his proper honorific. Not that Jon minds. He’s the King Consort, after all, not the King.

“I—well nothing, yet,” Jon admits, and realizes he isn’t making sense.

Her Grace doesn’t scoff or scold. Her eyes are kind. “I’m grateful you’ve been searching for them, at least.”

Jon nods, and finds he has no idea what to say. So he says nothing, just sits. So does Her Grace. It feels a little foolish, and just when Jon has decided to rise and take his leave, the queen says,

“Your sister has been curious about Drogon. She seemed happy to meet him.”

“Arya met Drogon?” Jon says. Arya was alone with the queen? And didn’t try to kill her?

“She came to us, this morning, when we were in the yard. She knows much about the history of the Targaryens, as it happens. She had questions about Aerea, and Rhaenys, and Visenya. Though she knew a few more details than I do, to be true. She even touched his snout,” she says, touching her own nose as she speaks.

“Arya did?” Jon says, still incredulous.

Her Grace lets out a little laugh. “Yes. I must admit, I was surprised as well.”

“And she was not unkind to you?” he says. He can’t help it. Arya knows his wife has taken a lover. He remembers she was always fascinated by the stories of Dragonriders, as a child, especially the women Dragonriders. It makes sense, that she would want to see Drogon. But even still, part of him is afraid that Arya was putting herself close to his wife so that she could find the best way to kill her.

“Your sisters can be sharp, at times,” the queen says tactfully. “But they have not been unkind. And they care very much about you.”

Jon understands none of it. He has felt the need to put himself between his sisters and his wife, as a protective barrier, and here he finds out Arya visited his wife privately, and petted her dragon. “When Arya was little, she loved the stories of the Dragonriders the most,” he says. “She would ask Old Nan to tell those ones, again and again.”

“And which did you wish to hear, as a boy?”

“The ones that haunted me the most were the ones of men trapped inside the wall and left to die,” Jon says.

“Very pleasant ones, then,” Daenerys smiles.

“Aye,” he smiles. “Which did you like, Your Grace?”

A distant look falls on Her Grace’s face. “Viserys told strange tales. Did you know, I grew up believing I would have to marry him? That was the practice, in my family. To keep the bloodline pure.”

They have rarely spoken of her brother, though Jon has heard stories. “He was unkind to you, Viserys?”

Her eyes darken. “He was a broken man. But not all broken men are broken in the same way. Viserys was cruel in it.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. While it’s true that Lady Catelyn made her disdain for him clear, she was not cruel. He wonders how different his life might have been, if she had been. If she had beaten him, berated him, forbidden his father to let him be raised at Winterfell. Her Grace had grown up believing she would have to marry a man who abused her. And she had, for a time—a different man than her brother, but one who had raped her, when she was a child.

And now she was married to Jon.

“It seems broken men are bound to you wherever you go,” he says.

Her eyes widen and she turns to him. “No,” she says. “Not anymore.”

Jon suddenly stands, the nerves all over his body alight, telling him to fight, to run. “I will come to you tomorrow evening, Your Grace,” he says, turning, and takes his leave in a rush, before his wife can make any reply.

They find him then, in the hallways of the Keep. He rounds a corner and there they are, coming toward him. Jon halts and lets out an aggrieved sigh. He doesn’t turn and walk away, as he wants to. But he won’t go toward them either. He waits for them to approach him.

Sansa searches his eyes. “We didn’t meant to upset you. We thought you’d be glad, to have someone finally speak to him for you.”

“Speak to him for me?” Jon says, his voice tight with anger. “Do you hear yourself? I don’t need you to defend my honor, like I’m some blushing maid.”

“Of course you don’t,” Arya says, looking genuinely confused. “Nothing could take your honor from you. Nothing can reduce you. Especially not some Tyroshi whore-“

“Don’t speak that word to me,” Jon says, low and dangerous, frighteningly close to a growl. “You don’t understand what it means.”

Seeing the understanding fall upon both their faces is satisfying. So satisfying, in fact, that he doesn’t regret whatever images this reminder of his past has brought to their minds. He cares more about the fact that they understand him than about controlling how they think of him. It eases him, to see them both finally _listen_ to something that he’s said.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Arya says. “That was stupid of me.”

“Perhaps it was stupid of us to call him out, like that,” Sansa admits. “In front of everyone. We’re both sorry.”

“Aye?” Jon says, widening his eyes at them, still angry but teasing them a bit in it. “You think, perhaps? Don’t you think I could call him out myself, if that was what I wanted?”

Arya’s eyes are regretful. “Of course you could have. We know that.”

“I have my reasons, for keeping quiet about it all. I told them to you myself.” They look at one another, but make no clever replies, and this assuages his anger. He lets it drop, with a long sigh.

“Well? Did you beat him?” he asks Arya.

“Twice,” she grins.

Jon smiles and wraps his arm around the back of her neck, pulling her toward him and mussing her hair, ruining her sleek bun. Sansa smirks, and Jon releases Arya and does the same thing to her, pulling her in close with an arm looped about her shoulders and messing the neat braids at her crown.

“What—Jon! Stop!” she cries, and for a moment she sounds so much like her younger self—prim, fussy—that Arya and Jon break into laughter. This affronts Sansa, and she smacks a fist at him, into his arm.

“Dear gods, that was weak,” Jon says, releasing her. “All this time, no one’s ever taught you how to hit?” He looks at Arya. She shrugs.

“What about a bow?” he asks Sansa. “I feel you might have a talent for a bow.”

“Fine,” Sansa says. “I’ll try a bow, if that will make the two of you shut up.”

“Aye,” Jon says.

“Aye?” she asks.

“Aye,” he says, and pulls her toward again, and thoroughly ruins her braids.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 9/17: The end of this chapter has been removed to give me time to consider. I'll post the redacted part again, word for word, either right here, as it initially was, or as part of a "series" to this work. This is a work in progress and I'm taking some time to think. Thank you for your understanding. Apologies for doing this weird thing!
> 
> Edit 9/15:First of all, I love you guys. 
> 
> Second, I am appreciative of your honest responses even when they are hard for me to take. 
> 
> Third, I had my own insecurities/uncertainties about this chapter but published it anyway. 
> 
> Fourth, I have a different way that things could go. 
> 
> Fifth, I am considering publishing that way but am concerned about interrupting “the dream” of the story. Meaning, disrupting the narrative flow in a way that makes readers too aware that his is a fiction, and leaves you unable to suspend disbelief. 
> 
> I welcome your input on this, knowing in the end I’ll do what I think is best. 
> 
> Xoxo.


	11. For A Sinner Like Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My greatest thanks to Salon_Kitty for beta reading this chapter and giving me so many valuable insights about this and the upcoming chapters. I'm so grateful, Salon_Kitty! All mistakes are mine.
> 
> xoxo

“What did you think your life would be like, when you were small?” Daenerys asks.

“A heavy question for breakfast, Your Grace,” Missandei answers, with a little blink.

They are in the queen’s chambers, in the late morning, on a rare day of rest. Missandei has helped Daenerys bathe and now stands behind her, combing out her damp hair.

“I just wonder if it’s what you expected it would be. But of course it isn’t,” Dany says, feeling foolish. Missandei had been stolen into slavery, as a girl. A callous question, for Dany to ask.

Missandei is gracious, as always. “No. It is not what I expected. But there are lives much worse than mine.”

People kept telling her that, it seemed. She remembers Jon’s words, about having known many fates, and this being one of the better ones. “When I was a girl, I thought Viserys would win back our family’s throne, and that I would marry him, and be wife to the king,” she says. “I never imagined I’d marry a man like Jon.”

“Like Jon in what way, exactly?” Missandei asks.

“I mean it in many ways,” she says. “A kind man, to start. Viserys was cruel, and I always expected to have a cruel husband. But Jon is kind, is he not?” Dany feels shy, suddenly, asking this. As if she is revealing too much.

“He is,” Missandei assures her. “An unusual quality, perhaps, for a man so brave in battle.”

“Yes,” Daenerys agrees. She leans forward to pick through a bowl of dried fruit and nuts on the table before her. Outside, it is snowing again. Part of her believes it will never stop snowing. “Jon has many unusual qualities.”

Missandei sets the comb down and begins to separate Daenerys’ hair for her braids, running her fingernails along Dany’s scalp. It feels lovely. “Which qualities do you speak of?”

“Well—the King is strong, but kind. He is passionate about some things—about justice, about the North, about his family. But while he seems to thrive in the physical challenges of battle, he does not enjoy other physical matters. I believe perhaps it is simply his way, Missandei.”

“Perhaps it is, “Missandei agrees.

“But despite that, I care for him very much,” Daenerys says, without really meaning to. Surprising herself a litle, as she says it. She watches Missandei’s face in the mirror before her. Sees the small smile that creeps onto her friends lips.

“Do you, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Daenerys says, feeling the truth of it, though it frightens her. She doesn’t know how to care for a man as peculiar as Jon. One who confounds her at every turn. “Nearly every man I’ve ever known has been easy to understand. Men want sex and power. They want my sex, and my power. But Jon wants neither.” And yet, despite his strange chasteness, Dany desires Jon deeply. Her body yearns for his, wants him close to her. Sometimes his beauty takes her breath away, when he walks into a room. It isn’t just that, of course. There is a goodness to Jon that Dany wants to be near to; that she wants to join with. But his modesty makes her desire feel somehow improper—wrong, even.

“It is true that many men prize a physical union above all else,” Missandei says. “But it seems to me that what the king values is something different. An intimacy of the mind, perhaps. Or of the heart.”

Daenerys considers this. An emotional intimacy with Jon Snow had seemed impossible, for months and months. How could she feel at ease with a man who couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her? In recent weeks, however, a certain companionship has grown between them. And even more than that, possibly—there have been moments, Dany thinks, when Jon has looked at her with something like desire, but a looming one. Something still deep in the waters, rising slowly towards the surface.

Still. Whether he desires her or not, Jon is a good man, and Daenerys has begun to wish for a closeness between she and her husband. “I believe I can accept his peculiarities,” she says. “It was just something I needed to adjust to. And now that he isn’t flinching away from me every night, I find it that much easier to accept him. Does that make sense?”

“Very much,” Missandei says. She ties off a braid, then pauses to pour them both more tea. “The king was not what you expected, and you needed time to adapt.”

_Time to adapt_, Daenerys thinks. Perhaps, it occurs to her, what her husband needs is also time to adapt—to become acclimated to her touch. Certainly it seems he would prefer a sort of touch that isn’t sexual. Because her desire scares them both. Because sex, quite simply, seems to agitate him. She will accept his modesty as a fixed and unchanging part of him, if she must. But perhaps there is a way to gentle things, between them.

“I have to send Daario away,” she says suddenly.

Missandei is separating more of her hair for another braid. She meets Dany’s eyes in the mirror and nods her head. “Yes,” she says. “I believe that would be best for you, Your Grace. If you wish to develop something more between yourself and your husband.”

“Do you find me a horrible person?” Dany says.

“I know you are not,” Missandei answers. “This understanding that you have has grown between you only recently. Before that, he was a stranger to you. And you were to him.”

Daenerys recalls Jon telling her calmly that he had decided to accept Daario’s presence because she didn’t deserve a sexless marriage. “Still,” she says. “People would judge me to be a terrible woman, if they knew. But when I allowed Daario into my bed, Jon was a stranger. One who loathed me—or seemed to,” she corrects, when Missandei opens her mouth to protest. “But Jon isn’t a stranger anymore. He’s strange, perhaps. But not a stranger.”

“No,” Missandei agrees, tying off Dany’s last braid. “He isn’t.”

* * *

On the appointed day of their coupling, Jon keeps himself busy, sparring with Arya, instructing his students at the sword. He even manages to get a bow into Sansa’s hand and is unsurprised when she takes to it quickly. Not that her aim is any good, to start, but he can tell she likes the feel of it. The power it brings her. Brienne stands by, allowing Jon to instruct his sister, although no doubt the knight could teach Sansa a few things herself. Ser Brienne smiles widely when, on her fourth arrow, Sansa manages to hit the target. 

“Very good,” Jon says at Sansa’s small, pleased smile. For a moment, with that determined set to her mouth, she reminds him of another kissed by fire woman he loved, who also shot arrows. 

“Father should have taught us all weaponry, from a young age,” she says, lowering her bow. “After all, girls need to be able to protect themselves more than boys do.”

Jon only nods, perhaps stiffly, and she looks at him. 

“Gods. I can be such an idiot. Jon—“

“Stop,” he says, turning a smile to her. “Everyone needs to be able to protect themselves, in this world.”

“Thank you for teaching me,” she says, in a softer tone than Sansa usually employs. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Jon smiles. “You aren’t taught yet.”

“I’d be happy to instruct you at the sword, Lady Sansa, if you would like,” Brienne says. She is without her husband, at the moment. Jon fought beside them both against the dead, and has forgiven past wrongs the aging knight was a part of. But Sansa and Arya have proven to be less forgiving, and Ser Jaime stays away from them more often than not.

“No thank you,” Sansa groans. “I have no interest in ever engaging anyone at the sword.”

Jon and Brienne share a look. He knows she loves Sansa as much as he does, and the two of them share an understanding of the soft parts that lie beneath her ice-sharp exterior. Ser Brienne knows enough of Jon’s own story to make him uncomfortable, at times—she was there after he was rescued, witnessed him breaking himself of the poppy. Has likely heard details from Sansa, Jon’s no fool about that. But Brienne is one of the most trustworthy people Jon has ever known. She has never looked at him with pity, or disgust, or anything but respect.

“I’ve tried to get her to take up the bow in the past, Your Grace,” Ser Brienne says to him now. She sounds apologetic. “It seems only her brother was capable of convincing her.”

“Most of the bad things that happened to me wouldn’t have been saved by a bow,” Sansa says to this. “And the times when a bow would have helped, I’ve always had one of you close by.” 

“But imagine if you could have taken Ramsay out with your own arrow,” Arya says, a cold hunger in her voice. 

“I preferred the hounds,” Sansa drawls, casting a glance at Jon. 

That day had wrought a terrible, special understanding between he and Sansa. A unique horror the two of them now share. The blood lust swimming up into his eyes, drowning everything else out, drowning out the entire world aside from himself and Ramsay, and the feeling of his flesh decimating the other man’s face, pummeling it until the skin felt like a sack of river sand beneath his fist—and then Jon had lost himself, somehow, to the wolf inside him. He doesn’t know exactly where he went, in those moments, but the next thing he knew, he was looking down at a half naked man, pinning that man on his stomach, holding a fistful of arrows in his own hand, near their heads, and Sansa was saying his name like a command--_Jon_\--and kneeling next to him, and Jon, panting, had realized he had been about to violate Ramsay with the arrows, as Ramsay had once violated him. That perhaps he had already begun. It had terrified him, to find himself in a position of such unspeakable violence, without remembering how he got there. And then Sansa’s voice again--_Jon!_\--and finally seeing Sansa there. Jon had dropped the arrows and scrambled off of Ramsay, and turned the kill over to Sansa. Sickened by what he had discovered himself capable of.

And when Sansa had gone to the kennels and fed Bolton to his own hounds, Jon had sat in Robb’s former chambers and found in himself a hunger for a violence he could not name. A hunger for someone to do violence against himself, a strange urge, a disturbing one. He had sought out Tormund, then. And as Ramsay’s screams had ripped through the halls of Winterfell, Tormund had sat with Jon, and said nothing when Jon had refused his offer of ale. Had just sat with him, in silence, dark and disturbing desires roiling through Jon’s belly. Neither had spoken. Neither had slept, long into the night. 

Eventually, Jon had gone to Sansa and found her awake in her own chambers. “It’s done,” she had said, a coldness in her voice that Jon wishes he had never heard, from his once spoiled and silly little sister.

So many things, Jon wishes he had never heard. 

Daario doesn’t appear at dinner. Jon notes his absence but feels little emotion attached to it, positive or negative. He sits next to Her Grace, watching her smile, and wonders if he will ever be able to provide her the beautiful things that unabashed love-making provides a person. Jon knows it does. And if not, can he live with her receiving it from Daario? Something has built between Jon and Her Grace, in these months when she has taken another man into her bed. A tenuous kind of rapport. Before, it felt like there was nothing to lose. In many ways, it was easier then.

After dinner, in his chambers, Jon removes all his armor, down to his linen shirt and breeches, takes a bracing breath, and knocks on the door to Her Grace’s chambers. He expects Missandei to escort him in, but the queen herself answers, smiling at him.

“Hello,” she greets him warmly.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Jon says. His heart is already pounding. He tries to slow it with his breath. It makes him angry, all of this, and it isn’t her fault. He doesn’t want her to see his anger, but it’s there. It’s never far away.

“Please, come in,” Her Grace says, and steps back.

Jon enters. To his surprise, sitting in the center of the room is a steaming bath, in a great tub that has been brought in. Next to it is a small stool. Jon turns to the Queen, concerned. He has spent the day preparing himself to do what he has promised he would do, tonight. Now he is confronted by something new, and he isn’t sure he can manage anything beyond what he has anticipated.

Her Grace smiles, a reassuring sort of smile. “I wondered if tonight, rather than making love, you might allow me to help you bathe.”

“Help me bathe?” Jon says. What manner of thing is this?

“Yes.” Daenerys isn’t deterred by his obvious hesitance. She says ‘yes’ firmly, a monarch who knows she will be obeyed. It eases Jon somehow, like gentle hands on the neck of a startled filly. She has an innate dominance about her; it upsets him and comforts him, by turn. Right now it comforts. “I know it isn’t what we discussed, but I thought it might be pleasant. You only need to take off your clothes, and get into the water. It seems fair that I take mine off as well. But we won’t be making love, not tonight.”

She says it gently. She is somehow so strong and so vulnerable, standing there next to the tub of water, waiting for him. Asking him, to indulge her in this act which is new to both on them, on this night, when surely she must feel as awkward and strained as he does. After everything, she is again opening herself up to the possibility that Jon, her husband, might reject her. Knowing all this, how could he even consider denying her?

“All right,” he says, fortifying himself. “If it means something to you.”

She nods. “It does.”

“And you don’t want to be intimate, after?” he asks her, because he cannot comprehend.

“No,” she says, and her voice is kind, but very firm. “Not tonight.”

He doesn’t understand it, but he is willing to go along with it. Without further ado, Jon removes his shirt, baring his chest to his wife. Then he sits at the table to unlace his boots. “May I offer you a glass of wine, Your Grace?”

“That would be kind,” Daenerys says. “But Jon? You must stop calling me that when we are alone together.”

“Your Grace?”

“Yes.”

“No, I mean—“ Jon huffs out a little laugh. “What shall I call you?”

“You do know my name, I trust?”

Jon smiles softly. “All right, Daenerys.” He removes his boots, pours her a glass of wine from the table there. Then he rises, and starts toward her in his breeches only. The walk across the room nearly undoes him, as memory comes rushing in, threatening to take over. His balance sways, the room goes tilting, and he pauses for a moment, mid-stride, to steady himself. Jon has performed these exact movements before, for men and for women who had paid for it. Forced to do as Baelish told him—as Baelish instructed him, in his little lessons—because the consequences of disobedience were too great. There was Sansa to protect, and even if he’d not had her, there was the device of Lord Baelish’s, a cruel and cunning thing, a punishment so degrading that it broke most who had to face it. Jon knows this. _Will you earn my punishment, bastard, or earn my reward_? Baelish would ask, holding up the strip of leather, the steel ring, and Jon would do anything, _anything_, to avoid it.

These memories are always there, just below the surface. He focuses on Daenerys’ eyes, and pushes them out. Resumes his step and moves toward her. Jon holds out the glass of wine to her, and as she takes it, she gives him a look that is gentle, but devoid of lust for him. That glint of desire he knows so well, has seen in so many eyes, is entirely gone.

Something eases in him. A weight unclenches in his chest and drops away.

With a fortifying breath, he starts to unlace his breeches. As he does, he sees Daenerys making to stand and reflexively offers his hand. She takes it, rising, and sets her goblet of wine on the stool. For a moment, there is only the two of them, the queen looking up into his eyes. Then, at the same time, as if by some previous arrangement, Jon shucks off his breeches and small clothes, and Daenerys unties her robe of pale green silk and lets it fall to the floor, quiet as snow.

They stand there, each naked before one another. Both are laid bare. Fire crackles in the hearth, and the room is warm. Heat keeping winter at bay. For the first time, Jon notices how the fire makes coppers on her silver hair.

His memories of the brothel are few. The mind can work certain tricks. Things happened to Jon there that are no longer within his knowing, but they swim inside his body. Perhaps they always will. Jon looks down at his scars. There were those who had loved his scars because of the pain they represented. There had been those who had taken pleasure in inflicting new ones. Her Grace seems to accept them as merely a part of him; even the brand of the flayed man at his hip no longer draws her eye. “Don’t you want to bathe first?” Jon says. She should have the cleaner water. His unblemished queen.

“I already have,” she says. “The handmaidens drew fresh water for you. They scented it with almond oil, and lavender, and Dornish myrrh.” Then she surprises him. She offers up her hand, the same gesture he has just made for her, and there is nothing for Jon to do but take it, and allow her to help him step into the water.

The bath is hot on his legs, but not scalding. Immediately winter begins to leech from his bones. “Is it too warm?” Daenerys says. “I’m afraid I tend to prefer baths that are too hot for most.”

His mouth quirks. Of course she does, his Dragon. “No, it’s not too hot,” he says. Then he lowers himself into the water. It is impossible not to let out a little sigh as he does. The scent and the heat are heavenly, and comforting, the warm water an immediate relief to the cold on his skin, the aches in his bones. The tub is deep, and the water comes up to his chest and is swirling with soaps and oils and flower petals, offering him a surprising amount of modesty. He is more covered than she is, he realizes.

“Are you all right?” he asks her.

“Yes,” she says. “Are you?”

He nods.

“Good. Winter has been long on us, and cold.”

Jon looks at her as she speaks. He keeps his eyes on her face, though he is aware of her breasts, bared to the firelight, moving up and down with her breath.

Daenerys takes a bristled brush from a nearby table. “Has anyone ever run one of these along your back for you?” she asks.

Jon considers this, then shakes his head.

“When I was a girl, I once had a handmaiden who would do it for me. Would you let me do it for you, then?”

He swallows hard. “Aye, Your Gr—Daenerys.”

He doesn’t know if he has flushed, or if she can read the nerves on him, the way a man can read his horse, but something he does compels her to try to comfort him. “Jon,” she says. “I promise you. There will be no lovemaking tonight. In fact, it is forbidden.”

He looks away from her face, feeling too vulnerable. To have one’s wife aware that he is so skittish about the act of sex with her is humiliating. And yet, he reminds himself, she already knows. How could she not? He has done nothing but show her how skittish he is for months now. He looks back to her and nods.

“But what will you let me do for you?” he says.

“You will let me help you bathe,” she says firmly. “That is what you will do for me tonight. All right?”

Jon takes in a deep breath. “All right,” he agrees.

“Good,” Daenerys smiles, and then she moves her stool around so that she is in line with his chest, and places the brush on his shoulders. She moves it from side to side, slowly down his back, and she’s right: it feels good, scratching itches he didn’t know he had. He draws up his knees and leans forward over them, resting his arms on them, allowing her to move the brush down lower. He shuts his eyes. It is uncomfortable, being the focus of so much attention. Yet she asked for this. Surely she wouldn’t be spending this much effort on him, if she didn’t want to. Daenerys runs the brush over his skin slowly, gently. It dips under the water, but she stops at his lower back, going no further, before moving it back up.

“Is that good?”

“Aye,” he says.

“A little harder?”

Jon nods. Daenerys begins to scrub his back. Jon sighs in deeply. In his life, when someone has paid this sort of attention to his body, it has almost always been humiliating and deeply painful. Euron was obsessed with him. His physical form, his mind. Euron wanted every inch of Jon, and took it. Jon is uncomfortable with this, then, having her pay such careful attention to him. He would rather be paying it to her. Although at the thought of that, something jerks in his mind. The memory of paying such attention to other women, while at the end of a leash. His chest hitches in.

“It’s all right,” Daenerys says. “Just the brushing.” She moves the bristled brush down the length of his arm. When she gets past his elbow, where it’s folded over his knee, she takes his wrist gently in one hand and pulls his arm toward her. He lets her. She holds his arm with one hand and runs the brush along it with the other. Jon wants to tell her to stop. But he told her he would let her do this. The fact that he gave her his word is the only thing that keeps him from leaving.

“How is it?” Daenerys asks.

Jon feels like an idiot. All this, over a bath? With his own wife?

“My queen—my lady—my –Daenerys,” he manages to say. “Let me—let me look after you.”

“Not tonight,” Daenerys says. She stands and walks around to the other side of the tub, Jon’s eyes tracking her all the way, remaining steadfastly on her face. There, she sits and takes his other arm, begins to run the brush along it. The gesture is so simple, and yet so tender. It unnerves him. No one in his life has ever done such a thing for him. Other than Tormund, who occasionally jostles him and roughs him affably about, no one has ever touched him in a way that was loving, and not about love making or desire. 

He shakes his head. “It’s too much trouble for you,” he begins.

“Please indulge me in this,” she says. “Think of it as a little nothing you can allow your wife, perhaps. One of those silly things men tolerate to make women happy?”

Jon studies her face, uncomprehending. “That would be insulting to both of us, were I to just—condescend to you, like some little pet?” He has no desire to kindle that sort of falseness, between himself and Her Grace.

Daenerys sighs, smiling faintly. “I suppose you’re right, Jon Snow. Don’t think of it that way, then. Just think of this as being more for my pleasure than it is for you. All right?”

He doesn’t see how it could possibly be so, but then Daenerys says:

“You said you’d let me,” with a little raise of one brow, reminding him of his word, and Jon submits, giving her a little nod.

“Good,” she says. She runs the brush along his arm, his neck, his back, and down around his collarbone, but not very far—doesn’t go near the muscles of his chest, the places where his body is over-sensitive to touch. He finds his eyes drawn to her, and forces himself to look away.

“I’m your wife,” Her Grace says mildly. “It’s all right for you to look at me. But don’t worry. Nothing more than this is required of you tonight. You have my word. Lean back,” she says, her tone switching from gentle to commanding, and it has an effect on Jon. He leans back, letting his weight rest on his back, propping his arms up on the sides. “Here,” Daenerys says, and she puts a cloth behind his neck. “You can lean your head back.”

Jon does. She moves her stool around to sit behind him. “May I unbind your hair?” she asks.

Jon’s throat bobs. “Aye,” he says roughly. He feels her fingers gently touching his hair, feels her tug at the thin strip of leather that binds it back, undoing it. His hair falls free. Her Grace puts her fingers in it and scratches at his scalp.

“I always find this feels good when I undo my own braids,” she says.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he says. “It does.”

Suddenly, Jon’s heart is pounding again. He sits up abruptly, leaning forward, away from her. He waits to hear words of her displeasure, but they don’t come. Daenerys simply waits quietly behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Her Grace says softly, and the way she says it, the reassurance in her voice, makes Jon wonder if she _knows_. And if she does, he can’t tolerate this—being cosseted this way by her, because she pities him.

“Did Sansa speak to you?” he says.

“No,” says Her Grace. “Should she have?”

“She didn’t tell you anything . . . about my past?”

“She didn’t,” the queen—Daenerys--reassures him.

“Did Arya?”

“No,” she answers. She doesn’t ask for the reason behind these questions. A mercy.

Slowly, Jon leans back again, resettling his neck on the cloth. 

If Daenerys has questions about his interruption, she doesn’t voice them. She simply goes on. “I’m going to wash your hair, if that’s all right?”

“Why are you doing this?” he says. He doesn’t want to offend her, especially when she is being so kind, but he is feeling something close to panic, and he can’t help it.

“After you came to me, and told me you had been considering ways you might ease things between us, I thought I ought to consider the same. And it occurred to me that all the solutions I’ve offered so far have included the act of coupling, which is the very thing that seems to trouble you. And then I thought that a bath might be a way for us to be with one another, without having to make love. It seemed a decent place to start.”

Jon has no idea what to say to this. He merely nods.

“May I wash it, then, Your Grace?”

“I don’t know why you want to,” Jon sighs. “But I suppose.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys says softly. She dunks a pail into the water, and then pours it carefully over his hair, so that the water trickles backwards over him and falls into a basin below. With her other hand she guards his forehead, to prevent the water running into his eyes. She does it again, carefully dousing his hair, and Jon shuts his eyes, then opens them, then shuts them again. The Queen takes something into her hands, some oil mixed with salt, and begins to rub it into his hair. The sensation is incredible—soothing, indulgent. The steam rising off the water is pleasant, and the water coaxes aches out of his bones. Her Grace scratches at his scalp with her fingers, and Jon lets out a sigh, and as he does he realizes there is a part of him that is bracing for his body to react, to flinch away. But he doesn’t. What Daenerys is doing is something no one has ever done for him, in the entirety of his life, and so the feeling of her fingers on his scalp triggers no unpleasant memories.

He allows himself to breathe.

“Where did you learn to do this?” he murmurs, his eyes still shut. It is too intimate, to open them, like this.

“To wash hair?” she says, a smile in her voice. “I happen to have a good amount of my own.”

He smiles. “I suppose there are always handmaids ready to wash the queen’s hair,” he says.

“Well. Silver hair shows grime much faster than black, after all.”

He cracks one eye open and squints at her. “Are you saying my hair is dirty?”

She widens her eyes at him. “Certainly not.”

Jon laughs. “Was this all some design to get me to clean my hair?”

“Don’t be absurd,” she says, slyly. “Close your eyes.”

He closes his eyes, and she pours water from a pitcher over his forehead, scrubbing at his scalp with her other hand as the warm water sluices across his scalp and down his curls, falling into the basin below. She does it again, and again, and with each pass of her hands through his hair, Jon feels the muscles in his lower belly uncoil a little more.

“There,” she says, setting down the pitcher and wringing the water from his hair. Then she takes a linen cloth and tossels his hair with it, rubbing it dry. The cloth reminds Jon of the early days of their marriage—could it really be a year ago?—when he would wash her after their lovemaking. He wanted to do something for her, something like this, something pleasing and soft. But there had been more to it than that. He had also wanted to scrub himself off of her. An image enters his mind, of her grace n the bath with him, but he flicks it away. Why would she, in her purity, want to do such a thing with him?

She puts the linen down and Jon feels a comb in his hair. She begins to run it through his curls, but it is almost immediately stopped by tangles. She works at it gently, but it tugs.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Does that hurt?”

“No,” he smiles. “Although I wouldn’t blame you for giving up altogether.”

The comb loosens, then snags again. She begins to work this next knot. He hears her let out a little stifled laugh and turns his head to look up at her. When she sees that he is smiling, she says, “How long has it been since you’ve brushed your hair?”

“Never,” he says, and laughs at the way her eyes widen.

“I believed you for a moment,” she says. “I suppose curls tangle faster.”

Jon turns back, resting against the tub, and lets her brush out his hair. It is difficult, to let her fuss over him like this, and he alternates between peace and self-consciousness.

“There,” she says at last.

“Is it over?” Jon says, sitting up. He doesn’t want her to feel obligated to keep this up any longer than she wants to.

“Is it so unbearable?” Daenerys asks softly.

He can’t see her face, and he needs to, so he turns, as much as he can, and she moves as well, adjusting the stool so that she’s alongside him again.

“It’s not unbearable at all, Daenerys,” he says, though words are difficult, and he feels embarrassed, for reasons he doesn’t understand. “I just don’t want you to trouble yourself over me.”

“Jon,” she says. “I asked you to let me do this. Perhaps you might try to trust me, in this one thing? Trust that I’m doing this because I want to.”

Jon frowns. “I do trust you,” he says. But he wonders how honest his words are. He hasn’t trusted her with his story, after all. His wife barely knows who he is, and it’s not because she hasn’t tried. 

Her hands are in her lap, and Jon reaches out, and places one of his on top of hers, squeezing it gently.

“Do you remember,” he asks softly, “when you asked me to stand by you, and we looked at the sea?”

“Yes,” she says. “Because you were someone whose presence I found comforting.”

“I think I might be that person again,” Jon said. “I would like to be. For you.”

Daenerys puts her hand on his face and looks at him with such kindness—but no, he realizes, it is deeper than kindness. “You never stopped being that person. I only forgot, for a little while. I remember, now.”

For a moment Jon thinks he might kiss her, and it might be all right. But he doesn’t. The thought is there, but the body will not obey. He rubs his thumb along her wrist. The moment holds, between them. A moment of possibility, and grace.

“Your heir,” Jon says quietly.

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” says her grace. “It will wait until then.”

Then she pulls away, gently. “I suppose the water grows cold,” she says, and he nods. She takes a cloth from the table and stands, holding it open, preserving his modesty, and Jon rises in the bath and steps out, allowing her to begin to wrap the cloth around him before he takes it from her, and covers himself. Daenerys bends, and picks her robe up from where she left it on the ground, slipping into it, tying it about her waist. Jon watches her, unable to quite believe that what has happened between them has truly happened. When her robe is tied, she looks up at him, and steps aside, to let him pass back into his own chambers.

“I hope you sleep well, Jon,” she says.

“I hope you do too, Dany.”


	12. Never Let Me Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all.
> 
> Everytime I publish a chapter, I feel the same way: this isn't quite what I wanted it to be, it's still not as good as I feel it CAN be, but I don't have months to dedicate to this story. I felt even more pressure with this chapter than with the other ones, and while I don't think I've quite done it justice, I've gotten to the point where I can't spend anymore time on it. So here it is.
> 
> My greatest, deepest thanks to Salon_Kitty for beta reading this chapter and giving me thoughts and ideas that made it so much better than it was before.
> 
> Mistakes and shortcomings are mine.
> 
> This chapter contains a melodic line quoted from Red Sea: “Struggle harder boy. The kraken’s tentacles only grip tighter.” These are half_life’s words; her writing is so lyrical. 
> 
> xoxo
> 
> CW: explicit descriptions of and flashbacks to rape and torture

Once Jon is gone, the room feels cold and lonely. Dany stands by the tub, the water in it now lukewarm, alone in an empty room. She would like to go to him, or to call him back. And she could, if she wanted it to be as such, between them. She knows Jon will do anything she commands. Looking at the door he has disappeared through, she wonders what it might be like were Jon to let her command him, the way she desires. She feels it might calm him, sometimes. In the bath, he had struggled to let himself enjoy what she was offering him. He struggled to let himself enjoy most anything, she has noticed. Jon Snow seemed to be at some sort of war within himself. Dany senses that having orders to follow might help him overcome his own inhibitions.

But she can’t. Or she won’t, anyway, not yet. 

There is an ache of longing for him between her legs. With a sigh, Dany turns away from the door to Jon’s chambers, and sends instead for Missandei. 

Her friend arrives with three serving girls, one who places a tray with evening tea on the table, while the others begin to empty the water from the tub. Dany sits by the fire and waits. Missandei pours the tea, stands beside Dany until the water is lowered enough for four men to come carry the tub out of the room. Then, at last, Missandei sits at the fire with her.

“How was it, Your Grace?”

“He was nervous at first, as you predicted,” Dany says. “I’m not wholly certain if it soothed him, or disturbed him more, to be honest.”

“It is no small thing for a warrior like Jon Snow to allow you to be tender with him so,” Missandei says. “Although warriors need tenderness as much as anyone else, it can be harder for them to accept it.”

“It seemed to unnerve him,” Dany agrees. “But he accepted it.” She turns her gaze into the fire, thinking of Jon’s abdomen, a pale field of snow marred with angry scars.

“It is hard for some men to allow themselves to be the focus of attention,” says Missandei. “They feel unworthy.”

Daenerys looks at her friend, her brows knitting. “Unworthy? I don’t think he feels unworthy. He’s just uncomfortable around me. Because of the early days of our marriage, my physical presence upsets him.” _My desire for him upsets him, _she thinks, but keeps to herself.

Missandei lets out a little sigh that is the tiniest bit impatient. Dany raises her eyebrows. Never has her friend seemed thus. “What?” she asks. “Am I being dense?”

“You are never dense,” Missandei reassures. “But I think you struggle to see clearly here. It isn’t you that upsets him, Daenerys. Not truly. Although the way things began between you is certainly regrettable.”

“But why would he feel unworthy?” Dany says, setting down her saucer and cup of tea. “He is the King. Is it because he was born a bastard?” A ridiculous concept, anyway. Jon had a mother and a father, like anyone else, whoever they were. He was no different from the rest of them.

“That is likely where it began,” Missandei says. “I’ve learned how they treat bastards, here in Westeros. Men of such low status, even when raised by their father, like His Grace, are afforded very little respect. They are made to feel as if they are always outside of the family, not a part of it. From what you have said, it seems to me that something inside Jon Snow tells him he does not deserve to have you tending to him the way you did last night. I don’t believe he disliked it. He just needs time to grow accustomed to it.”

Daenerys decides, then, that she will keep doing it, as long as Jon will allow. Perhaps he will grow accustomed to that. Perhaps to more. As the thought occurs to her, though, she pushes it away. She dares not hope.

“He said something strange about his sisters,” she muses, remembering. “He asked me if I had spoken to them. He was worried they’d told me something, clearly.”

Missandei looks at Dany, considering this. “Perhaps he has spoken to them about you, Your Grace?”

“I don’t think so. He asked if Sansa had told me anything about his past.” Dany pauses, frowns. “I’ve told you how he has so very many scars.”

“Jon Snow is a warrior,” Missandei says. “Like Grey Worm.”

“Does Grey Worm have many scars?” Dany asks.

“Many,” says Missandei, her voice darkening.

“There was something he was protecting. Something he wanted me not to have heard from his sisters.”

“Some information, you mean,” Missandei says. 

Dany nods. She remembers when Arya came to see Drogon. Jon’s sister had reminded Dany of a child, in her awe, her enthusiasm. For once, she had seemed not the steely-eyed assassin, but a little girl. She had reminded Dany of herself. 

“Will you demand his sisters explain, Your Grace?” 

The thought startles Dany. “No,” she says.”I won’t do that to Jon.” Not that she could if she wanted to. Dany knows Sansa and Arya aren’t going to say a single word to her that they haven’t actively chosen to. Unlike their brother, they have not committed themselves to her command. “I’m tired. Let’s to bed.”

Sometimes, when Dany is lonely, Missandei sleeps beside her, as Irri and Jhqui used to do. But Daenerys doesn’t oft wish to keep her friend from Grey Worm, and, considering all their talk of scars, Dany dismisses her. Alone in her bed, with her husband only a wall away from her, Daenerys sleeps.

When she wakes in the morning, she still aches between her legs for him. She rolls over onto her stomach and moves atop her bedsheets and her hands to find release, all the while thinking of Jon--the curve of his back in the firelight, his curls, his eyes dark like a wolf’s. She thinks of the way he teases her. She thinks of the way he demures to her. She imagines what it might be like, to be able to help him--to tell him what to do, and to let him simply obey. This unknowable husband of hers, who lies now just a wall away from her.

Burying her cries into her pillows, Dany peaks.

It is a simple thing, it turns out, to dismiss one’s lover.

Once she is dressed, Daenerys has Daario brought to her chambers. Unsullied escort him to the door, and it’s clear from the moment he enters the room that Daario understands what is about to happen. She has never sent for him before. She has never had him escorted to her chambers.

She allows Daario to close the door behind him. His hands on his swordbelt, he smiles at her ruefully. Raises his eyebrows.

“My queen,” he says. Reverence and resignation in his voice.

“You have been away from the Free Cities for too long, Commander Naharis,” she says. “I’m certain they shall be grateful to see you return.”

Daario breathes in deeply, nods.

“I’ve served my purpose, then, in Westeros, Your Grace?”

“You have been exactly what she needed, for a time,” Daenerys says. “And she will always be grateful.”

“I see,” Daario says. He takes a step toward her, then halts himself. “May I?”

Dany nods. Daario crosses the room, comes to where she sits, and goes down to one knee before her.

“Your Grace,” he says. “I have pledged you my arakh, and yours it shall remain. Though I may now visit other lands, you will always remain my sovereign.”

“Thank you, Daario,” Dany says, emotion creeping into her voice. “You have been true to me, and loyal. If there is anything you need, you may ask it. I will grant it, if I can.”

Daenerys had considered this offer, afraid he might ask for something she couldn’t grant—a place in her Queensguard, a knighthood, a title. But in the end she decided Daario unlikely to ask for such things. He has a roaming, restless nature. She herself is the only thing that’s ever made him stay in once place.

Daario smiles at her. “The only thing I would ask of you, I suspect you would not grant, my dragon. Forgive me,” he catches himself. “My queen.”

“What is it?” she says, but by the time she has spoken the words, she knows. The glimmer in his eye confirms it.

Dany exhales. “You always knew this couldn’t last, didn’t you?” she asks him softly.

Daario nods. “Yes, Your Grace. I did. And I decided to enjoy it anyway, for a time.” He pauses, and she holds his gaze as he studies her face, his eyes a bit sad, but warm. “I am sad that time is over.”

“When you and I began our interlude, my husband and I were strangers,” Dany tells him. “But we’re not anymore. Not completely.”

Daario makes no reply, just gazes at her. She knows he wants to take her in his arms. Better yet, to take her to bed one last time. But it can’t be. Instead, she holds her hand out to him. With a rueful smile, Daario takes it, and brings it to his lips. His eyes lock on hers as he kisses the back of her hand. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, stands abruptly, and gives a bow.

“With your leave, my queen, I will tell the Second Sons to prepare to set sail.”

There is a sadness, Dany cannot deny. Though Daario already seems like a pale shadow in comparison to the light that is Jon.

“Thank you, Commander Naharis. You will always have my gratitude.”

She means it. With that, her lover nods once, shortly, and leaves.

Throughout the rest of the day, Daenerys is careful not to change any of their habits. They meet together in the late morning to discuss state affairs, and Dany attempts to keep the atmosphere easy, the way things have grown between them. She nearly tells him that she has dismissed Naharis, but she can’t decide what sort of reaction Jon will have to the news. She’s afraid he might panic, or startle, perceiving it as an increased demand upon his attentions. In the end, she doesn’t mention it. She knows that this means he might find out on his own, but Dany thinks that would be better. The message, she fears, would seem loaded, coming from her.

They take dinner together, side by side at the high table. Sansa and Arya sit to Jon’s right. She doesn’t know what causes it, but the strangeness that had begun to dissipate between her and her husband sprouts anew. Jon says little to her at dinner. Her attempts at flirtation are met with a strained smile. With his sisters so close by, it makes even Dany nervous, and she forsakes speaking to him, tries to leave him in peace.

When the time is appropriate, Jon turns to her. “Shall we retire, Your Grace?”

She has not expected this. Has expected to have to urge him along at every interval. She nods, and stands, and the entire hall stands with her. The fact that the entirety of the court must take notice when the king and queen retire does not put Daenerys at ease, and she knows the embarrassment of it must be even worse for Jon. But he shows no sign of discomfort; is as composed as ever. He only offers his arm, and together they take their leave.

As they walk through the Keep to their chambers, a retinue of guards behind them, Daenerys tries to think of something to say to him. It is difficult when she can feel his strain, and she realizes how sensitive she is to it, just as he was overly sensitive to her every movement in the first weeks of their marriage, and often still is. She almost blurts out some inane question about whether he liked the fish this evening, and then realizes she cannot falter, she must appear confident and calm for him, and yet she must do this without slipping into her Queen’s mask.

How much easier it would be, just to take charge.

“Do you still find yourself agreeable to our arrangements for the evening, Your Grace?” she says. She watches for any sign he might give her—any little hitch of breath, any hint of disquiet. When he turns his head to look her right in the eye, she turns her gaze to meet his.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he says, with that steadfastness she has come to trust in him. There are times it feels like this man could provide her a safe and solid place to start from, if the two of them could only figure out how.

“I’m most appreciative of this, Jon,” she says softly. Looking at her, he draws in breath as if he’s going to say something, then turns away.

When they reach the doors to their chambers, Jon takes her to hers, and then releases her arm. “I’ll join you shortly, Your Grace,” he says low, for her ears only, and Dany knows that under different circumstances, this promise spoken into her ear in the presence of others might have sent shivers of delightful anticipation up her spine. Without thinking, she clutches his hand.

“No,” she says. “Don’t go.” She doesn’t want him to disappear into his chambers, and then emerge that other person, the other Jon, who seems unable to tolerate her, who is silent and stunned. “Please, just stay here with me.”

Jon’s eyes are dark, depthless pools that Daenerys is always trying to find him within. He nods.

She enters her chambers, holding his hand. Refusing to let go, like somehow she can keep him here with her, prevent him from slipping away. Her bed has been made and a fire is burning, no preparations have been made beyond that.

“Your Grace,” he says.

“Please, Jon,” she says, and she makes her voice calm, though she does not feel calm and perhaps just a touch commanding, because he responds to commands. “In here, call me by my name.”

“Daenerys,” he says. She waits. Whatever he asks her for, she will give him. Whether it is time alone in his own chamber to prepare, or a halt to their plans altogether. She waits.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just looks at her.

She considers offering to sit together, and speak first, but they have been sitting together all evening, and words have not come.

“Perhaps we might simply bathe, again,” she begins. “That would be pleasant—“

“Dany,” Jon says, and she can hear the embarrassment in his voice. “Don’t coddle me, please.”

She nods. It is a fine line to walk, to make him feel comfortable, and yet not make him feel condescended to. 

“All right. Is there anything you would like me to do?” she says.

He shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry. Why don’t I just—“ and he reaches for his gorget, and begins to attempt to pull it off of him.

“Allow me to help you,” she says. “Please.”

Jon pauses, and then nods.

“Will you sit?”

He acquiesces, sitting in one of the chairs at the table. Daenerys comes to him and begins to undo the clasps that hold his gorget in place. She is amazed he hasn’t broken the thing, wresting at it as he did. “Have I ever mentioned to you that you could have a boy to help you with all of this?” she says. He opens his mouth to protest, but then cranes and sees her wry smile. He gives a little breath of a laugh.

“Once or twice,” he says. 

Dany manages to loosen the gorget and pulls it gently off him. Next is his coat of plate, which reaches to his knees and is fastened at his waist with a belt. He moves to stand but Daenerys puts her hand on his shoulder to still him. She moves around the chair until she is standing directly before him, and then slowly, deliberately, drops to her knees between his legs. His wide eyes follow her but she doesn’t look back at him, just focuses on undoing his belt. Once it is done she glances up at him. He holds out his hands, and she takes it, using his strength to steady herself as she stands. She moves to his back and begins to undo the laces that hold the armor in place, so much like a corset that it makes her smile.

“Are you sure you can manage?” he says.

“I’m sure,” she replies, and in a few moments, has the coat of plate loosened. She begins to try to work it off of him, but is shocked by how heavy it is. 

“How do you move in this?” she says, and Jon smiles, and stands and quickly shucks the entire affair off, letting it fall to the ground.

The padded tunic beneath comes off more easily, and then Jon is down to his undershirt, breeches,and boots. Dany lowers to her knees again and begins to work at his leather boots.

“Don’t,” he says, reaching for her. And because she doesn’t know if he is protesting because he feels unworthy, or if because being disrobed by her upsets him in some deeper way, she looks at him and nods, and Jon quickly removes his own boots.

That is as far as she is willing to undress him. She steps back and Jon rises. He looks at her with a certain gentleness in his eyes. So far she has not frightened him. He is here with her.

“I would like to kiss you,” she says. “But you seem not to like it, Your Grace. Perhaps there is somewhere you do like to be kissed?” She is surprised to find herself flushing, pink heat creeping into her cheeks. It’s nothing she hasn’t done before, putting her mouth on that part of a man. But to suggest it to her husband in his chasteness seems scandalous.  
  
For his part, Jon does not flush nor look away. He maintains eye contact, which seems to Daenerys to be a small miracle.

“I used to enjoy such things,” he says. “And it’s not that I don’t wish to enjoy them with you.”

He stops there. Always just short of all the information she wishes to know.  
  
“You do wish to enjoy them with me, but something prevents you?” Daenerys ventures.  
  
“Aye,” Jon answers, and she sees that his eyes are very sad. “I can kiss you though, Dany, I think. Wherever you’d like.”  
  
“I should like to be kissed anywhere by you, Jon,” she says. “And I think you know that.” He is too attuned to her to not know, how deeply she desires him.  
  
Holding her gaze, Jon doesn’t speak. He stands, and takes a step toward her. “Aye,” he says, and his voice is husky with something she would think was desire, on any other man. “I do.”  
  
He takes another step toward her, and then, his eyes locked on hers, places one hand on the back of her neck, the other at the small of her back, and pulls her toward him.

“Do you know I dreamed of you, before I met you?” he says.

Then he is kissing her and she doesn’t want to change that, afraid that if she so much as breathes, the spell will be broken. He kisses her gently, with only his lips, slowly pressing his mouth to hers and then pulling on her lower lip with his, and it is lovely, and delicate, and so very soft.  
  
Dany simply allows the kiss to be. She is careful not to escalate it, not to grow over passionate. She just lets him do as he is comfortable with. It is a wonderful feeling, his lips on hers, and yet it’s hard for her to truly enjoy it, because she is so worried. Worried that he is not all right, that he is merely pretending to be, or trying to be. Worried that she will do something wrong and break whatever spell has wrapped around them to allow even this kiss to be possible. She is wholly uncertain of what to do next. In the past, she has been the one to guide him through their encounters, but she doesn’t want to do that this time. She knows she doesn’t want to go through the same series of steps they’ve resorted to in the past, doesn’t want to take him in her hand as he shuts his eyes and floats away, doesn’t want to merely lie back and wait for him to finish inside her.

But then, what else is there? Jon is kissing her with utmost tenderness, his hand in her hair, and Dany tries to return that tenderness to him, but it is hindered by too many thoughts, too many doubts. She is afraid to even put her hands on his hips, afraid of what reaction that might engender.

Then Jon pulls back. She opens her eyes, and he is looking at her, his hand still in her hair, his lips ever so slightly cherried from the kiss. “I know things have been difficult. I thought perhaps if we began another way this time, it might help,” he says. “Perhaps you would let me see to your pleasure first, Your Grace.”

She is about to refuse. Night after night, she has refused to let him do this. But he has told her not to coddle him, and it seems to her now that anything he asks to do in the act, she ought to allow. He must make his own choices, here. If this is what he is willing to do, let him do it.  
  
“All right,” she says.  
  
“All right?”

She nods. “You keep asking me. All right.”

Jon looks stunned, and for a moment, she almost takes it back, fearing he was counting on her saying no. What he does next surprises her greatly, then. He wraps his arms beneath her seat and lifts her from there, effortlessly taking her up into his arms, so that now she balances above him. Between her legs Dany lights up, pulses there with a longing awareness, her body seeming to reach out for him with desire. His face turned up to her, he carries her over to her bed, and then lowers her smoothly down, sitting her on the edge of it.

He goes down to his knees before her.

The awareness between her legs intensifies, fills her near to bursting, and it is a terrible thing, because she wants to be careful with this man, who seems to hate her desire for him, and yet who she desires so very much.

Her nightdress and robe reach to her ankles, and Jon delicately fingers at the hem. “May I?” he says, looking up at her, making his meaning clear.

She can’t speak. She swallows hard. She nods.

Jon nods back. Then he puts the whole of his hand on her ankle and pushes ever so slowly up her leg, her dress rising with it, revealing her pale skin, like drawing back a curtain. He runs his palm up her leg as he does, and she feels every inch of it, his rough skin caressing her smoothness, all the more for the fact that it has been months since she has felt her husband’s touch. It lights up every nerve, not just along her leg, but in her whole body, and already her breathing shallows as she watches him, feels him. His hair is bound behind him and without thinking she reaches out for the strip of leather that holds it—but catches herself.

“May I unbind your hair?”

He nods. She pulls the knot loose and Jon’s black curls are freed. Daenerys puts her hands in them and tossels them, shaking them loose. Then, fearing a misstep—has she touched him too readily, too soon?--she places her hands on the furs on either side of her, and waits.

Jon catches the hem of her dress at her other leg, and with care, pushes that up as well, running his other palm along her skin as he does. This time she doesn’t interrupt him, and he doesn’t stop at the knee. He keeps going, and his palm drags upwards along the skin above her knee, and then her mid thigh, and then he is bunching the fabric about her upper thighs, and Dany adjusts to allow it. Now she sits before him with her legs open and bare, and Jon is knelt between them. Daenerys is terribly aware of her sex, inches from his face, exposed to him. It is thrilling and arousing and yet it worries her—that it will be too much. It all feels like too much.

“May I kiss you here, Dany?” he says, touching her thigh. And then he moves his hand and touches the backs of his fingers gently to the silver hair above her opening. “And here?” he says.

She opens her mouth to answer, but words will not come. She only nods.

Jon bends and puts his lips to her delicate skin on her inner thigh, closer to her groin than to her knee, and Dany has ached for his touch for so long, and been so long without it, that a jolt goes through her entire body at the sensation of his mouth, there—just there, on her thigh, how will she ever stand more?—and she gasps and her body gives a little jerk. Jon notices. His lips on her thigh, his eyes flicker immediately up to hers.

“Is this all right?” he murmurs, his lips moving against her skin.

She nods quickly. “Yes. Are you all right?”

He nods his head, just once, and then his eyes lower again and he kisses her again, closer to her groin, and again, moving in towards her center. When he has nearly reached it, gently nudging her legs wider apart so that he can kiss the joint where her inner thigh meets the rest of her, he then moves to her other leg, kissing at her other thigh, using a little more force now. Suckling at the skin there, a little bit. Daenerys shudders with the thrill of it, watching him, watching his head move, his hair glimmering darkly in the firelight. The shadows that play across his pale cheeks. She wants to put her hands in that hair, caress him, but she doesn’t dare. She has no idea what she could do that might startle him.

He brings the backs of his fingers again to her sex, and brushes them along her hair there. It is a teasing, coaxing sort of gesture, and Dany gasps. He looks at her again, checking, and she nods—_yes, yes, it’s all right_—and then he moves his head and centers himself between her thighs, and places one of his delicate kisses right to the top of her mound, on the silver hair there, above her sex.

This simple kiss splits her open. “Gods, Jon,” Dany breathes. She feels raw, her every nerve exquisitely exposed. Another man has kissed her here, but it has never been like it is now with Jon. She looks down at him as he shifts, and she can see that beneath his breeches his member is somewhat hard. It shocks her. She has done nothing for him.

“Are you all right?” she asks him.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he breathes, and then he moves his kisses straight down her center, so that he is kissing at her lower lips, the outer petals of her opening. Dany gasps and leans back on her hands, as he continues kissing her there with the same gentleness and dedication he showed to the lips of her mouth. He brings his thumb up and places it between his mouth and her sex, and then he kisses her while pressing his thumb into her pearl in little circles, and Dany lets out a low moan.

She is beating like a heart with arousal. Jon’s eyes are shut. She watches him for a moment as he kisses her between her legs, and it is thrilling and sensual in a way she hasn’t known about yet, with any other man, and then she says, softly, “Jon?”, because she is worried that he is not all right, not really.

He doesn’t answer. She has slid back a bit on the bed, and he is stretching his neck to reach her, so she adjusts slightly, pushing up on her hands, nudging closer to him so that he won’t have to strain, and also because she wants to check in with him. At the exact moment that she nudges forward, toward him, her sex toward his face, she mindlessly puts her hand in his hair and Jon immediately stiffens and jerks back.

“Oh,” she gasps, sick with regret. “Jon, I’m sorry—“

He shakes his head, and brings his face back toward her, but she watches him as he does and she can see that his eyes have gone dark, are over-glossy, like waters of a black pool reflecting no light, and she wonders how long they have been thus. She thinks that when he looks this way, the wolf inside him cannot be far.

“Jon, please, don’t,” she says, her voice a groan. “Please, don’t go away like that. Stay here with me.” She grabs his face, cupping his cheeks, and speaks into his eyes, hoping to somehow draw him back to her—not his face to her sex, but his presence. His self. “You don’t have to do this. Please, I don’t need this—I don’t need any of this. I just need you here with me.”

Jon draws in air, and releases it, long, and shaky. He collapses his head, then, resting his forehead on her thigh, and breathes a moment. When he is ready, he looks back up at her.

“I’m so sorry, Dany. You’re right. I can’t do this.” He pauses, his palms resting on her thighs in a way that suggests a certain comforting intimacy between them. “And you deserve to know why.”

* * *

Jon has stood alone on a field as hundreds of men bore down upon him on horseback, and faced them with only a sword. He has climbed the wall. He has fought through the night only to watch the Night’s King build himself a brand new army of the freshly-dead, and has kept on fighting, in the face of even this. He has slain more enemies than he can even begin to count. And he has lived through day after day, night after night, of endless, relentless rape and torture. What he is about to do takes a different kind of courage, but one that is equal to, if not greater than, all of that. Which explains, he tells himself, why his body begins to shake. The cold sweat suddenly along his forehead. The rising pitch of dread in his belly.

“Yes,” Daenerys says. “Please, tell me why.”

She is looking down at him with her eyes wide and frightened, and Jon hates that he is the one that has put that fright there, has made her thus. She is unsettled, uncertain, in a way that he only sees her when he is with her like this, in their marital bed, and his gut twists with guilt. He nearly startles up and away, fighting an urge to put himself as far away from her as he can, so that he cannot hurt her. But he represses the urge. Instead, he takes the hem of her dress between his fingers, and carefully pulls it back down her legs, covering her. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

“Please don’t be sorry,” she says. “Just speak to me.”

She deserves to know, his Dragon Queen. No matter the consequences, he should have told her long ago. He hates that he hasn’t, hates that it is so difficult for him, even now. The things he suffered are over, why should he find it so unbearably difficult just to speak to his wife? Is he such a coward?

“We should sit,” he says.

“All right,” says Her Grace. Jon rocks back on his heels, and stands before her in his breeches, his chest exposed for her—_like a whore_, a voice rings, and he pushes it away. It’s not Her Grace’s voice, it’s someone else, and no one else matters. He offers her his hand and she takes it, and stands. Her eyes meet his for a moment, and then she says, “Here,” and drops his hand, and goes to the wardrobe, takes out one of his robes. She holds it open for him, and Jon slides into it, one arm and then the other, allowing her to cover him.

“Thank you,” he says. Her Grace nods, and then moves toward the table with the two chairs, by the fire. She moves like a person who is trying not to startle something wild: a deer, a frightened horse.

Jon’s heart pounds and suddenly blood is rushing in his ears. He takes a deep breath and then goes to the chair across from her, and sits.

She is watching him closely, his queen. He can still taste her on his tongue. The taste of a woman was first in his life a beautiful thing, sacred, and then it was twisted into a torturous, sickening thing. Now, with Dany still in his mouth, on his lips, he finds that it’s all right. Not as overwhelming with pleasure as he remembers it being, when he was a very young man, first tasting Ygritte—but neither is it gut-wrenching, the way the taste of a woman eventually became. It’s Dany on him, in him, and he has no desire to wash it away. There is a part of him that wants more of her, but that part of him is very far away, buried under things too difficult for him to name.

“You’re trembling,” she says.

Jon squeezes one of his hands in the other, tries to still himself. But he can’t. So he speaks anyway.

“Daenerys,” he begins. “I’m afraid that what I’m about to tell you is going to ruin everything we’ve managed to build. And it’s been hard to build those things,” he quirks one end of his mouth up in a sad, pained smile. “It will certainly change everything. And I won’t pass judgment upon you, for any decision you make after I tell you what I’m about to tell you. I don’t want to lose you, Dany,” he says, hearing the emotion in his own voice, trying to contain it. “But I’ll understand, if that’s what you need to do. I’ll always understand.”

“Jon,” she says softly. That’s all. Just his name. Her face is full of fear.

Jon looks into her eyes. “I was held captive on a ship.”

He stops there.

“Where you were flogged,” she prompts. “Please go on. Please tell me.”

Jon nods.

Decides.

“I was held captive by Euron Greyjoy,” he says. “I was sold into slavery by my brothers of the Night’s Watch, after they mutinied against me. Greyjoy slaughtered the slavers who were holding me, and took me. He beat me. And had me flogged, and . . . other things.” Jon swallows. He remembers being lashed to the ship’s mast, that first night and day, after Greyjoy had whipped him. Thinking that would be the worst of it. _Struggle harder, boy. The Kraken’s tentacles only grip tighter._ He watches her face very carefully as he forces himself to say what he next must say. 

“And he subjected me to harsh treatment.”

“Harsh treatment?” Dany repeats slowly, her brow furrowing in confusion. She senses he means something more, but she hasn’t reckoned what yet, and Jon wants to tell her, desperately wants to just _say it_, for fuck's sake, but the words stop in his throat and grip in his chest and won’t loosen.

“He kept me on a leash,” Jon says instead. Part of him wants to slide away when he says this, to go somewhere else. Into Ghost perhaps, or just deep within himself, to an unreachable place. But he forces himself to stay here, with her. Remembering how it felt, to be brought to heel on Greyjoy’s whim. Like a hound. _Kneel, bastard_, and the lead at his neck forcing Jon to submit. “In the evenings he would--he would--” His breath is coming too fast, as if he’s been fighting in battle, but he hasn’t. He looks at his wife. What is wrong with him, that after everything--everything--this should be the thing that bests him? 

“He would . . .?” Daenerys prompts.

“Bind me to his bed,” Jon forces out, and he sees the knowledge light up in her eyes, the little raise of her eyebrows, before she stills her face again.

“I understand,” she says, her voice frighteningly calm. Jon looks her in the eye and sees that she does understand. That she has grasped the fullness of how intimately Greyjoy assaulted him. It’s there in her eyes, the fact of it, looking back at him.

He stands abruptly. Stalks to the window and opens the shutter, then throws open the glass, letting the cold air in. He is sweating. When he looks back at Dany, her face is unreactive, and unreadable, to him. He wishes he knew her better. Wishes he had trusted her with more of himself, so that he might better be able to see her more clearly, now.

“I fought, Dany. Or I tried.” A memory--the first time he had escaped his bonds and attacked Greyjoy, only to be subdued, and then violated. The humiliation of it nearly sends him to his knees. He reaches a hand out to the sill of the window, steadying himself, and continues. “But Greyjoy kidnapped a girl, and held her against me. If I disobeyed him, he harmed her. So I obeyed. Except—“ this is difficult. Even now, even from here, he can still hear her screams. He shakes his head, catches his breath. “Except once, I didn’t obey. He cut her fingers off. And he was capable of worse, so much worse. And then Theon—” it all jumbles in his brain, it’s hard to recall the order in which everything happened, and he feels his own memory faltering. An unsettling sensation. “Theon came, with Asha, and so Greyjoy had him too, and he tried to use us against one another. And sometimes, it worked.”

He looks at Daenerys. She nods at him, encouraging him to go on. Her face is somber, but her reaction is tempered, and it is this—the fact that she doesn’t cry, or rise in rage, or react much at all—that allows Jon to keep going.

“He would make Theon bind me. To hold me down. He wanted me to hate Theon, and sometimes, I did. I regret that now, but there were moments when I did.” Jon takes a deep breath. Goes on. “After a time, I was captured from Greyjoy by Ramsay Bolton. With Bolton, it was worse.”

He can’t stop clenching and unclenching his fist. He feels anger rising in him, and he forces it down. He had lost control of his anger around her once, before, and in it he had attacked and terrified her. He will not do that again. His anger he will take elsewhere, he will not allow it out here, with Daenerys. He risks a look at her. Her face is very still. After a moment of silence, she says,

“Please go on.”

Jon squares his shoulders to her, folds his hands behind his back. “He did the same things to me that Greyjoy did, Your Grace.” Jon stops, torn between the desire to stop this account of endless horrors, and the desire to get the worst of it out, now that they are here, speaking of it. “But Bolton allowed his men to do those things, as well.”

He expects that his wife, upon hearing this, might do a great many things. He is prepared for disgust, as the realization of what exactly she has taken into her bed comes over her. Or perhaps some sort of weeping and flailing, these things too brutal to speak of. But the Queen only blinks, and nods. “I see. What else?” she asks.

He studies her face. “Do you really want to hear all of this? I don’t want to burden you with my past. Except that, of course, I already have.” He has done worse than burden her with it--he’s wounded her.

“The truth about you is a gift, Jon. Not a burden. I want to hear it all.”

With a great sigh, Jon studies her to make sure she means it thoroughly, that she truly does want to hear. She seems sincere, and so he continues, knowing that he must get as much of it out as he can. “Other times, when I disobeyed Bolton, he killed people. He flayed people, when I disobeyed. Otherwise, I would have fought harder. I would have found a way—“

Her Grace is shaking her head. “I understand why you obeyed,” she says. “You are too noble a man to have done any differently.”

He is so grateful for her words, his eyes prick like he might begin to cry. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he says somberly, catching his breath, holding the tears back. The urge to pace has dissipated, and Jon finds that suddenly Daenerys looks so small, and so alone, seated there across the room. He walks back toward her and takes his seat again, leans toward her, his arms on his thighs. He finds suddenly that he wants to be very close to her indeed. She turns, shifting towards him. He scans her face for disgust, but finds none. He goes on.

“Greyjoy was trying to rescue—to find me,” he says, shaking his head. He can’t believe what he nearly said. _Rescue me_. Although there were times, under Ramsay’s rule, that, gods help him, he would rather have gone back to Greyjoy. “But then Littlefinger arrived. And he had Sansa.”

Her Grace nods. “And so you had to do whatever they wanted. Because otherwise they would have punished your sister.”

“Yes,” Jon says. He closes his eyes. He knows that if he doesn’t tell her this part, this will be for nothing. She needs to know all of it. The whole truth. For years he has been carrying this immense weight with him everywhere he goes, and none of the possible consequences of telling her matter so much as this simple fact: that Jon can carry it no longer.

He lays it at her feet.

“They forced me to serve in a brothel,” he says, his voice ragged. The words rip out of him, out of the very center, the lowest part of his gut, like a shrieking wind. Jon swears he can actually feel something tear through his chest as he says it, something like a hot wind, like a blast of fire, burning all the way out. He is afraid he will vomit. He hears himself draw in a shaking breath, let it out. His body shakes and though he tries, he cannot stop it.

The words have their effect on Daenerys, as well. Finally, there is a crack in his wife’s calm veneer. She reacts to this physically, before she can stop herself. Jerks back, as if the words are an actual blow landed on her body. Her brows furrow. Her lips part, and suddenly tears fill her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he rushes to say, as Daenerys rushes to blink back her tears. “It was for a short time, but I should have told you. I don’t remember most of what happened to me there. You should have known what I was before you bedded me-“

“Stop that,” she commands. Her voice stills the very air in the room itself, ringing against the walls. She is fighting for control, Jon can see, and he watches as emotions flash across her face before being reigned in. The tears halt. She sets her mouth in a straight line. “Stop apologizing to me for what you survived. Gods, Jon, how _did_ you survive it? It should have killed you.”

Jon’s eyes skitter away from her. He isn’t ready to tell her this, about his resurrection, the strange way his body heals too quickly, the curse that kept him alive. Not yet.

“There were times when I wished it would,” he admits. As the days had dragged on, yes, Jon had wished for death. Although in some ways, the first time had been the worst—Greyjoy taking him, after the two had struggled, after Jon had fought to break free. The humiliation of being physically subdued by another man, and then the shock, when that man had forced into him in a way Jon had never counted possible, not truly, and the pain of being rent in two—a splitting that was physical, but also more than that, that had created in Jon a second self.

After that, Jon had understood, the cruelties men could inflict on a body. The first time had been the hardest, because he hadn’t known.

He watches her. She is nodding, and then the mask of her face splits again, and tears rush her eyes and spill over instantly, before she can stop them. She tries to wipe them away, tries to hold them back. It pains him, that he has caused this upset in her. He leans toward her, meaning to take her up in his arms, perhaps. Wanting to comfort her. Then shame stops him. Likely she does not wish to be held by someone who has been used and defiled like him.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Please go on.”

“We don’t need to go on about it, Your Grace,” he says, unable now to meet her eye.

“Please, Jon. If you can. I want to hear as much as you feel you can tell me.”

The memories are all jumbled again. He means to tell her about the time Ramsay flayed the strip of skin off his arm, but he can’t recall quite when that occurred, and so he says the next bit that comes to mind, that feels important for her to know. “Greyjoy gave me milk of the poppy every night with my wine,” he speaks to the floor. “I didn’t realize it until it was too late. Until I was dependent upon it. But I broke myself of the habit, with Tormund’s help, and Sansa’s.” He is anxious for her to know he broke himself, that he is no longer addicted. That wasn’t him, that person.

“To make you compliant,” Daenerys says.

Jon nods. “Yes.” He couldn’t have slept in bed beside Greyjoy for all those months if he hadn’t been drugged. He would have become sick and weak with exhaustion. Greyjoy had known that.

“But you were the heir to Winterfell,” Daenerys says. “You are Jon Snow. Was he insane?”

“Yes,” Jon says. He smiles, a little bit, to hear her so incredulous. _You are Jon Snow_. As if that has ever meant anything. “And I wasn’t the heir to Winterfell then. The Boltons had taken it.”

“The X, on your hip,” Dany says, her eyes widening. “The flayed man.”

“Aye,” Jon says. “He branded me.” Jon stops there, exhausted. He doesn’t know how much longer he can go on. 

“I see,” Daenerys says, her voice measured and contained. “That must have been unbearably painful.”

“It wasn’t the pain,” Jon says, hearing anger rise in his voice, unable to hold it back. “It was the degradation.”

“I know,” says Daenerys, and there is a resonance in her voice that crystallizes the air in the room. 

“You do know,” he says, remembering. “It was done to you.”

“Yes,” she says. “But not to this degree.”

“Your Grace. I’m so sorry-“

“I’m not reminding you so you can pity me,” she says. She is unflinching. “I’m reminding you so you know you have nothing to be ashamed of. You and I are equals.”

Jon shakes his head. He isn’t her equal, he never will be. He’s a bastard, as Bolton so loved to remind him. He’s been used and discarded by more people than he will ever be able to remember. “No,” he says.

“Yes,” says Dany. She reaches out and puts her hands on his face, halting the shaking of his head. She searches for his eyes, and reluctantly, Jon gives them to her. “We are equals, Jon.”

“Don’t say that,” Jon says, his voice shaking with exhaustion, with emotion. “The things that happened to me--they changed me. But not you, Dany. They made you pure.”

Horror fills his wife’s eyes. Jon is only surprised she hasn’t shown it sooner, has kept it hidden for as long as she did. “Stop,” she says. “Jon--how can you even think that?”

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say. He is incredibly weary, feels his body might just give out, drop. “I should have told you sooner. It wasn’t fair, for me to marry you without you knowing—“

“Please, Jon,” she says. “Please, don’t ever apologize to me for the things you have survived, again.”

“All right, then, Dany,” he breathes, his words somewhere between an acquiesce, and a plea. Too tired to argue any further. “So what now?”

Daenerys blinks, surprised at his abrupt change, and then raises her chin and says, “I think we ought to go to sleep.”

Jon’s eyebrows go up. “No--about our marriage, I mean.“

“Jon,” she says firmly. “I think you and I ought to lay down, and go to sleep.”

He nods at her. “All right,” he says. “But Your Grace, I think you ought to end it. Our marriage. Isn’t that what you want?” He can bear it, once it happens. It’s the not knowing, the anticipating her dismissal of him, that aches.

“No,” she says, her voice as strong and clear as he has ever heard it. “No, Jon Snow, I don’t wish to end our marriage. I wish to begin it.”

With those words, Jon realizes that this isn’t some artifice. She isn’t appeasing him, merely to take her leave of him or put him aside later. Again there is an urge to take her up into his arms, but he checks himself. Whatever is happening between them right now, whatever understanding, he can’t make himself trust.

“Thank you, Daenerys,” he says. “I’ll take my leave, then.”

Without looking at her, he turns and goes to his bedroom, needing suddenly to escape, and before Her Grace can say anything, he leaves, and shuts the door.

Despite his exhaustion, Jon finds he cannot sleep. Speaking of it all has brought memories to the forefront of his mind, memories that torment him, playing out over and over again, as if they were actually happening. Memories of things he’d thought he had forgotten. He is restless in his sheets, rolling from one side to the other, trying to find peace. Unable to. It is on nights such as these that Jon is tempted to drink wine, to dull the images. Ones that make him moan, gasp, curl in on himself like a child.

Then, there is a knock at the door—the one to Daenerys’ bedroom. Worried that something has happened, Jon nearly leaps out of bed. He opens the door, eyes wide, alert for danger, but standing there is only his wife. 

He takes her in, anxious to make certain she is all right.. She looks back at him with eyes that are large, and achingly tender. She looks vulnerable, Jon realizes, and he has rarely seen her vulnerable before. Only when she was making love to him. Asking him to kiss her. Only when he was drifting somewhere very far away. He wants to reach out to her and pull her toward him, but he restrains himself, and waits.

“Jon,” she says. “This is difficult for me. I didn’t know if I should come.” She hesitates, and then Jon watches her draw herself up. Watches her resolve. “But when I said I thought we ought to go to sleep, you see, I meant—what I meant was the two of us. Together.”

Jon blinks, surprised that she would ask this of him, now. But she has been so tender to him, and so understanding, that he finds himself nodding. “All right, Your Grace. I’ll try—“

“No,” she says, stepping toward him, putting her arm on his chest. “No, gods, Jon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—that. I meant only that I should like to lie beside you, if you’ll let me. While we sleep.”

“Dany,” he sighs, with all the gentleness he has ever known, and steps back to let her in. 

Her eyes trained on his face, wary, she enters the room and then stands there in the center of it, seeming uncertain. And suddenly, Jon finds that he is able to gather himself. He goes to the bed. He climbs into his side, beneath the furs, and then he lifts them for her, looking at her, and waits.

A tear slips down the queen’s face, and then another, and she comes to Jon’s bed and gets into it, accepting his invitation. She situates herself beneath the furs he’s holding open for her, with her back toward him. She presses herself into him, and then she suddenly goes rigid.

“I’m sorry—is this all right?” she says, alarmed.

“It’s all right,” he assures her, quietly, speaking into her ear. “May I put my arm around you?”

“Yes,” Dany says. “Please.”

Jon lowers his arm and wraps it around her waist, and pulls her more tightly into him. He feels the rise and fall of her breath against his chest, smells her hair, which is scented of something sweet and burning, like incense, like spun sugar. 

He presses his lips to her head, behind her ear, where her body meets his in the furled wave they’ve formed together.

“Tell me if you want me to let you go,” he says.

She shakes her head. “Don’t let go.”

He holds her, his arm at her waist, her body a small silver pearl in the shell that he makes around her, until they both fall asleep.


	13. All This Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My greatest and utmost thanks to Salon_Kitty for beta reading this chapter. Her help has once again improved it greatly and I might not have published this at all without her gentle nudging :D. Mistakes are mine

Jon wakes with a start. Something feels wrong. He feels empty, alone. But Jon is accustomed to waking alone—why should that matter now?

He remembers.

He rolls over and there she is—Daenerys, still fast asleep. He has made his way to the far end of the bed in the night, has slept the way he knows he did with Greyjoy—curled tightly on his side, as far away from the bed’s other inhabitant as possible.

But here is not Euron Greyjoy. Or Ramsay Bolton. Or one of any number of faceless men and women whom he woke to find himself in bed with over his months in the brothel.

Here is Dany.

He can’t believe she is here. The fact of her, lying there next to him, sleeping peacefully despite knowing what she knows, stuns him. He expected her to have fled in the night. In all the possible scenarios he had imagined of what might happen after he told Daenerys the truth, awakening with her next to him in bed was not one of them. He had feared she would ask him to allow her to put him aside and end the marriage. Or perhaps, he’d thought, she might send him away to live in the North, under the guise of holding it for her. Remaining married to him in name only, remaining married to Daario in matters of intimacy, emotional and physical. When he had entertained the unlikely possibility that she wouldn’t send him away, Jon had imagined that instead she would withdraw inside herself. That they would struggle through months and months of a silent marriage, one in which they spoke only when required, as Dany nursed her wounds and worked out how she was going to come to accept being married to a thing like him. Once, in the moments before sleep, a darker solution had flicked through his mind. One in which Dany had punished him, for what he had done. For the way he’d deceived her. In order that he might be forgiven.

There was so much shame, and it lived in him. It needed somewhere to go.

She has pushed the covers off of her in the night—over-warm, as usual. She sleeps on her back, in her nightgown, her face turned toward him, one arm across her stomach and the other, the one nearest him, splayed across the bed in his direction, as if reaching for him. Jon drinks in the sight of her. Many mornings he has lain awake before her, trying not to disturb her in her sleep. Out of respect for her privacy, however, he has never watched her sleep, never truly taken her in. He allows himself to now. Even in sleep, she is something so close to perfection that he feels lucky just to be near to her. Her lips are parted slightly, her brow smooth. Untroubled. His gaze travels down to her chest, rising and falling beneath the sheer night gown she has slept in, silk of pale silver. She is silver head to toe, like a blessing, like a star.

_ Dear gods. The things he told her last night. _

__

This woman—his wife, his  _ queen _ —knows everything. He feels exposed, ripped open. Her mind is now full of visions of him in his degradation. Of him being tortured, violated. As shame washes over him, Jon begins to turn away from her—and then stops. He won’t let himself. Instead, he angles his body closer to her. He lifts his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, wraps it across her at the waist. Draws her more closely to him. He hasn’t asked her permission, but he knows she wants him, knows she longs for his physical presence, and so he doesn’t think she’d mind. And in this moment, with shame crashing over him in fresh waves, waves with tongues like grit that strip his very skin off of him, he knows something. Knows he needs to make a habit of turning toward her, rather than away.

__

Dany stirs, beginning to wake, and as she does she moves against him, her hips shifting in the silk—just so—and in doing so, causes a little tug at his groin.

__

Jon cannot believe it.

__

Reflexively he moves his hips away from her, keeping the rest of her pressed to him but angling so that she won’t brush him again, just there, and so that Dany herself won’t feel the evidence, however subtle, of his arousal.  _ Arousal.  _ Since his time as a captive, he has rarely felt his body awaken with lust without Jon putting actual effort into encouraging himself along. Most nights when he was to lay with Daenerys he would prepare himself—take his member in hand and stroke it until his body at last responded, trying to think of nothing. Nothing at all. Because there were no thoughts that could arouse Jon any longer, no little fantasies, all of them tainted by his experiences, the violence he’d suffered. Even the thought of Ygritte could not help him. The memory of Ygritte herself was washed in blood, the memories of her body and the things they’d done together were washed in the horror of the things he’d been forced to do with others. Only by making his brain go blank was Jon able to coax his body into erection for Her Grace.

__

But here, now, his body has reacted of its own accord, without Jon having to go blank or slip out of himself.

__

Before he can think too much on it, Dany stirs further. He is on his side with her body supine and pressed towards his, and as she begins to wake she turns toward him, managing to get even closer, and burrows her head into his chest. He can feel her breath through his shirt and something in him responds protectively to this burrowing of hers, the way she nestles now closer to him. He hates the things he has submitted to. The things he has allowed to be suffered upon his own body, and the terrible, blessed release he sometimes took from it. Oftentimes he feels a strange desire to be punished for it, the way his father would punish him when he was young, and had misbehaved. His own desires sometimes disturb him. All that swirls with this new feeling, of Dany, in his arms, how small she is here in sleep, and how certain he feels that he will destroy anything that might come to harm her. His head propped on the arm that is not around Dany’s waist, he breathes in the scent of her hair, and for a brief moment, allows himself to have this: his wife, in bed with him. Curled to his chest beneath the covers, on a snowy winter morning.

__

He hears her breathing change and then she moves, pulls back to see him. Jon lets her find his eyes. Though part of him doesn’t think he can bear to meet her gaze, he forces himself to. Her violet eyes are wide and seeking.

__

”You’re here,” he breathes, without meaning to. “I can’t believe you’re still here.”

__

She brings a hand to his face, and Jon doesn’t flinch away. Instead he lets her touch him, lets her fingers and palm rest on his cheek. “Of course I am,” she says. “Where would I go?”

__

Jon draws in a deep breath, lets it out. “After everything I told you I thought you might—“ he stops.

__

“Might what?”

__

“Might be afraid. Or perhaps, find my presence here offensive.”

__

She shakes her head a bit, confused, and Jon realizes that in fact, he is the one who has turned his back on her, and Dany—his Dany—has remained here, steadfast with him, despite knowing what she knows.

__

Daenerys moves her hand from his face, runs it down to his chest and rests it, unknowingly, over the very spot where a knife once took him in the heart and ended his life, for a little while. She presses there, her hand to his heart. “Your presence will never be offensive to me, Jon.”

__

Jon puts his hand over hers, holding it there, and knows he would do anything for this woman, who has heard the truth of him, and has not fled. He would kill for her.

__

He would die for her.

__

“And you’re not afraid?” he says. The instant he does, the irony of it strikes him, and he smiles weakly. Dany isn’t afraid of anything.

__

“I’m not afraid of you.” She smiles. “Are you afraid of me?”

__

“A little,” he says, breathing out a laugh as her eyes widen. His thumb grazes at a spot on her lower back.

__

“How did you sleep?” she asks.

__

“Deeply,” Jon says. “And well.” It’s true. His sleep had been undisturbed by dreams or nightmares, by sweat or shaking. “And you?”

__

She frowns. “I dreamed of a sea of fire and blood,” she says.

__

He exhales. And what had he expected? “Are you angry?”

__

“Not with you,” Dany says.

__

Jon doesn’t know what to say to this. They fall silent, for a moment there is only the fire crackling in the hearth, Dany’s face, her hair, the fact of her, in the white light of the snowstorm outside. Dany rubs her thumb back and forth, over his scar, and then seems to catch herself and draws back. Reflexively, Jon lifts his arm off of her waist, letting her go.

__

“I’m sorry—“ she begins.

__

“Do you want to get up?” he says at the same time.

__

“No. I want to stay right here. But I was touching you near—in the place—“

__

For a moment he thinks she is referring to the scar, that she has intuited something about it. But then he realizes she’s referring to his chest, remembering the way his body responded to her touch there, how she had once made use of it, how he had reacted when she did. His shame has transferred on to her, and he hates this, wants to rectify it, somehow. He takes her hand and places it back over his chest. Though the cloth of his shirt covers the scar, he knows exactly where it is.

__

“You can touch me here,” he says. She looks at him with doubtful eyes, and then he feels it—he always feels it. Littlefinger had told him his body was perfectly wrought for whoring, and it’s hard to argue he was wrong. He can’t say what it is—something in her eyes, the way she parts her lips, perhaps even a faint heat that rises from a specific part of her body—the little hitch in the rise and fall of her breath. His wife wants him. Her body yearns toward his. Jon doesn’t turn away from it. He thinks of all the many nights that he has laid with her, all the nights he has peaked and she hasn’t, all the times she has gone to bed with this thirst of hers unquenched. How she says nothing of it—how he knows she will never say anything of it. He does not want this for her. For them.

__

“May I touch you, Dany?” he asks.

__

“Jon,” she breathes. Understanding his meaning immediately. “That isn’t necessary. Gods. After what you’ve been through—“

__

He opens his mouth to protest.

__

“Let me speak,” she says firmly. He closes his mouth again. “When you and I would attempt to be intimate, and I would watch you disappear into yourself, as you did--or disappear to somewhere, I don’t know where--I thought it was because of me. The way I did it when I was married to Drogo, and I had to let my husband--take me. I thought you were suffering because you had to let me take you."

__

“Dany,” he interrupts.

__

“I don’t want to be just another person who you have to give your body to,” she says. “I couldn’t live with that. So I’ll accept this about you--that you don’t like sex, and don’t want it. I’ll accept _you_. We don’t need to move forward with that right now.”

__

Jon lets out a long sigh. She means every word, he can tell by the depth of her voice. The power with which she speaks, that power that astounds him whenever he hears it, no matter who she is addressing.

__

“Dany,” Jon says quietly. “Thank you for saying that. But that isn’t what I want for us. For you.” He takes a deep breath. “It isn’t what I want for me, either. I don’t want what was done to me to stop me from enjoying you, the way a man can enjoy a woman. I don’t want it to stop me from giving you the pleasure a man can give a woman.”

__

Her hand is still on his face and now he places his on hers, running his thumb along her smooth cheek. “We’ve been married for over a year and I haven’t managed to bring you pleasure. Not once.”

__

“But you needn’t worry about that now. I want to know that you’re all right. That’s what matters.”

__

“If you start to tiptoe around me, I won’t be able to bear it,” he says, a bit gruffly, but he can’t stand it. Can’t stand for her to gentle him, to coddle him, like a pet. No sooner than he would do it to her, would he have her do it to him.

__

She nods. “All right. I’ll try—I won’t. Tell me then. What you want.”

__

Jon thumbs her cheek again, then brushes his hand back, over her hair, down her back and into her long curls, letting his fingers tangle in them, letting them grip. Aware of his cock the entire time, as he does. Aware of the life in it, that he has not felt in a long time. He moves his face close to her, closer, putting his lips on her ear, and then whispers,

__

“I want to make you come.”

__

He enjoys the shiver that runs along Dany’s entire body. Grazes the backs of his fingers along her arm, where goosebumps have gone up. Her eyes search his.

__

“Let me,” he says.

__

“Are you certain?”

__

He is so awed by her, still here with him, after what she knows, that he feels like he could do anything. He wants to give her anything he can. Everything. “I’ve been the source of so much pain for you. Let me be the source of some pleasure, as well.” Another tug of need at his groin as he speaks low, and from his throat. “Please, Dany.”

__

At last, she nods.

__

He smiles. He can’t believe he is smiling at her, at the onset of an encounter such as the one they are about to have. The smile fades quickly to something deeper, something more primal, and he lets his hand run down the length of her back, to her buttocks, grazing her gently there.

__

“Where can I touch you?”

__

“Everywhere,” Dany whispers. “Anywhere.”

__

Jon nods. A tension fills the room, but not a bad one. A shared awareness of what they are about to do; it brings its own electricity. He moves his hand over her thighs. He wants to touch her between her legs, but her gown is there. Closing his eyes, he starts to pull her gown up—

__

“No,” Dany says, her commanding voice, her queen’s voice, and Jon freezes. He opens his eyes, startled, concerned. She puts both her hands on his face, cups his cheeks. “Stay with me. If you’re going to do this, Jon, you keep your eyes open and on me. Understand?”

__

Now a shiver runs up Jon’s spine. “Yes, Dany,” he says, his voice hoarse. She holds his gaze, not speaking, and Jon doesn’t move, waiting for her permission. After a moment, she seems satisfied, nods once.

__

Jon lets out the breath he’s been holding. This makes it more difficult, somehow, but also better. He knows it’s better. He keeps his gaze locked on hers as he tugs gently at her night gown. She reaches down to help him, and together they ruche it up around her hips. Jon raises his eyebrows, a question. Dany nods.

__

He slides his hand in between her legs. His fingers part the place where her thighs touch, and she opens to him. Jon presses, massaging his palm along her groin, along her sex. There is damp heat, and he swallows hard, at how much she desires him.

__

“It troubles you,” Dany says. “My desire for you.”

__

He stills his hand, but leaves it there where it is, between her legs. “No,” he says, firmly. “It doesn’t.” He makes himself mean it. For too long, someone’s desire for him has meant only pain, and humiliation. But that’s not the case anymore, he tells himself determinedly. He is set on making himself believe it. His wife’s desire for him is a good thing—a beautiful, clean thing. Pure, like Dany is pure. He waits, doesn’t move further. Waiting for her permission, for her to deem him satisfactory.

__

At last, she nods.

__

Immediately, Jon moves his hand again, stroking his palm against the area where her pearl lies, hidden beneath its shell. Dany’s eyes flutter shut and she sighs, then opens them again, fixing her gaze on his. So she will make herself remain open-eyed as well. Both to monitor him, and to support him, it seems to Jon. He rubs her sex again, and again, slowly moving his hand between her thighs, dipping in and out, in and out. Dany’s lips part. He pauses, presses his palm to her, and moves it in circular motions.

__

Dany gasps. Let’s out a sort of mew.

__

He has never explored his wife like this before, and the realization stuns him. Does not know her preferences, has no idea of her signs, her little signals. What she looks like when she is getting close. “Like this?” Jon asks, massaging between her legs.

__

She nods. “Yes,” she gasps. “Like that.”

__

He continues to caress her there, in circular motions, until Dany lets out another moan and moves her hips toward him, and he senses she needs more.

__

He changes technique, then. Keeps his thumb over her pearl, working at it, but letting two fingers move lower. Using them to part her lower lips.

__

“Jon,” Dany gasps. Her eyes are locked on his, the intimacy of it is nearly unbearable. “Dear gods.”

__

Meeting her gaze, Jon realizes that he doesn’t feel the sense of imminent threat that he has always felt during sex. Watching Dany growing flushed and beginning to forget herself with pleasure, he realizes that he feels safe. If he began to go too far, to lose himself, Dany could stop him. She wouldn’t allow him to hurt anyone. He moves his fingers in between her outer folds, enjoying the sight as her lips part and she lets out a startled cry, her body buckling in the middle with a jolt of arousal. “All right?”

__

“All right,” she nods. Then he slips a finger deeper in between her openings and she gasps. Her mouth stays open, and she moves her face toward his. Mouths at him, but doesn’t kiss him, really. He does the work. Moves his lips, turns her motion into a kiss, all the while keeping his eyes open and on her, as she ordered.

__

“Tell me what you need,” he says. “How do I make you feel good, Dany?”

__

“Jon,” she moans. “Put them inside of me.”

__

“Yes, Dany,” Jon breathes, and then slowly, carefully, finds her inner opening and pushes one finger in. Dany’s hips give a satisfying jerk, as if the sensation is so pleasurable it has set her to flight. It makes him glad to see this, and he can’t believe his own gladness.

__

“Another?” he says.

__

Dany bites her lip, her brow furrowed, and nods. “Yes,” she breathes.

__

Jon gently pushes a second finger into her, and then begins to move his hand, imitating the act of penatrative love, rubbing her sex with his palm as he lets his fingers slide in and out of her warmth.

__

“Is that good?”

__

With their eyes open like this, there is no possibility of deception. “Harder,” she says, and then she grabs his hand and shows him how to move it, in tight little circles, pressing firmly, and he does.

__

“Like this?”

__

“Oh gods, Jon. Gods,” she moans.

__

She is struggling to stay with him, to keep her eyes open. He thinks he has her close, now, is getting a feel for her rhythms. He continues to work her, rubbing at her sex, massaging her inside with his fingers, watching her face as she blinks and blinks, fights against sliding away.

__

“Close your eyes,” he says. “I’ll stay here with you. I promise.”

__

A look of exquisite pain comes over her face, her brow furrowing. She bites her lip. “No,” she growls, and grabs his face. “Stay—“ she interrupts herself with a gasp of pleasure. Jon presses his hand harder, gives a little jerk, pulling her toward him by her groin, encouraging her to come. She whimpers for an answer.

__

“Stay with me,” she says. She presses her forehead to his, holding him by the back of his head, her eyes open. Doesn’t allow him to escape, and doesn’t allow herself to, either.

__

“Dany,” he says, a plea, because he fears it’s too much. Fears that the intimacy of this will push him over some edge that she’ll be left to bring him back from.

__

“Do as I say,” she says, and this command gives him something to settle in to. Then her hips jerk again, toward him, but she doesn’t come, though he knows she is close. “Let me ride you,” she says.

__

“Yes,” he encourages. “Ride me.” They move together. Dany rolls on top of him, Jon pulling at her waist with his free hand, keeping his other hand on her sex. She straddles his thigh and he leaves his hand there, between her legs, feeling her heat, her wet readiness for him. She pins his other hand down with one arm and then she rides him, moves atop his hand, grinding her hips into him. She moves in tight little circles, and he pays attention, so that he can better imitate her movements next time— _ there will be a next time _ , the thought flashes through his mind, overwhelming—and then at last she lets out a cry, and he knows she is cresting.

__

She doesn’t look away. She keeps her gaze locked on his, and so he does the same, mirroring her strength, her openness to him. She cries out again, and again, each one somehow a triumph and a protest. Her entire body convulses and heat seems to rush over her, suddenly pinkening the skin of her chest, left exposed by her gown. “Jon!” she cries. Jon blinks, stunned. She cries out his name in her ecstasy. Tears prick at his eyes.

__

At last, he has managed to bring her this.

__

He watches as the final waves of her orgasm wash over her, and over her, her cries peaking and then subsiding, like the roar of the ocean just outside. The moment they do, before she can even begin to catch her breath, he slides his hand out from beneath her, reaches his arms up—she releases her hold, allows him to move—wraps them around her and pulls her down atop him. The fullness of her breasts presses into his face, and he holds her there, close to him, breathing in her scent, feeling the warmth she holds in this softest part of her against his cheeks. He can’t help himself--he burrows into her there, just a little, nuzzling her with his nose. Dany brushes a hand along his curls.

__

“Dany,” he says. Because her position is awkward, he moves her gently. Rolls her off of him and onto her side, allowing him to wrap his arms around her and nestle into her chest, as she had done to him in her sleep. She lets out a tender little sound, and continues stroking his hair. He kisses her, just once, between her breasts.

__

“Jon,” she says, breathless and bewildered. He feels her body give a little shudder, an aftershock. He runs his hand through her hair, down her back. Intertwines his legs with hers.

__

Then she pushes up, looks at him, worried. “Is this all right? Are you all right?”

__

“I’m all right,” he promises her. He can’t believe it, but it is true. She looks at him as if she doesn’t quite believe it, searching his eyes. He lets himself be searched, submits to her scrutiny.

__

“If you weren’t, you would tell me,” she says, and it isn’t a question, so he doesn’t answer. Only nods.

__

“Good,” she says, and decides, it seems, to believe him. Her hair is disarrayed, her cheeks are flushed with her orgasm. He touches his fingers to her temple, brushing back a strand of silver hair.

__

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he repeats. She smiles, the worry leaves her eyes and they soften.

__

“I’m here,” she says. She pauses, and then her gaze flickers to his groin. “Shall I--?” 

__

He shakes his head. In bringing her to orgasm, his body has surprised him. His cock has gone from displaying mild interest to solid arousal, and she must have felt it as she moved atop of him. “Don’t worry about me,” he says. “Leave it.” He can’t bring himself to explain—that he worries it will be too much. Send him snarling into his wolfish self, or send him simply away, when he is determined to remain here with her. That he doesn’t feel he  _ deserves _ to orgasm with her, isn’t ready to let himself have that. She scans his face, considering.

__

“All right,” she agrees. “We’ll leave it. For now.”

__

Jon flushes at this, feels heat creep to his cheeks. It isn’t unpleasant, however. Something about her taking command like this feels like a safe sort of surrender. He nods.

__

“All right, Dany,” he acquiesces. 

__

She looks at him with a soft expression in her eyes, and then folds him up into her again, pressing his face into her breast. Jon can hardly believe it, but in this moment, here, with Dany knowing all the things he submitted to and endured, it suddenly feels as if the world beyond these walls matters very little. Perhaps naught at all. 

__

__


	14. Found the Devil In Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of rape

They lay together for awhile. Eventually, however, although she feels wonderfully sated, Dany’s brain starts to spark itself back to life, and she has questions. And worries. The reality of what Jon went through edges into her mind, creating a disturbance there, and these thoughts makes her restless. She pulls away from Jon and looks into his eyes. She can still feel his hardness pressed against her. He offers her a smile that is surprisingly shy, then puts his hand on her face and searches her eyes for a moment. “Do you have other obligations?” he asks, and Dany knows he is referring to Daario.

“I asked him to leave,” she says. “If you survey the armies today as usual, you should see the Second Sons preparing to sail for Essos.”

Jon blinks.

“I should have told you,” she says. She is the nominal commander of the armies—the Queen’s army—but Jon invests more time with the men who fight for them. It is he, after all, who walks among them daily, learns their names, confers with Grey Worm, and alerts Dany to any issues. “I didn’t want you to think it meant that I would be . . . “ she doesn’t want to finish the sentence. Doesn’t want to burst this beautiful glass bubble that sits around them, shielding them from outside concerns. “Different, with you.”

He has a right to be angry, she supposes. But Jon simply nods.

“Are you angry?”

His eyebrows raise gently. “That you sent Daario away?”

“Yes. Or for not telling you something I should have told you.”

She hears the irony in this after she speaks it, and Jon does too. They have both kept their secrets. 

“Perhaps if we agreed to stop keeping things from each other now,” he suggests.

“All right,” she agrees. Dany is suddenly anxious to get up, to speak to Missandei, but this peace she has found with Jon seems so fragile, she can’t help but fear that if they leave this room it will break. It is Jon who at last kisses her forehead—Dany closes her eyes, softening at the tenderness of the gesture—and pulls away. “I’m to meet Arya this morning,” he says. “She’s agreed to teach her water dancing to the young warriors.”

“Has she?” Daenerys says, smiling. This is a pleasant surprise. It will be good for Jon, to be with his sister and the young swordsmen and women. They seem to be two of the only things that bring him true contentedness. And while he is occupied, she can deal with—

“What are you going to do to Tyrion?”

The question startles her. She had meant to keep it from him. “Who says I’m going to do anything to Tyrion?”

The smile on Jon’s lips is tolerant and long-suffering. “Do you think I know you so little?” Dany smiles back. She doesn’t know how well they know each other, that’s the trick of it. But, though they have perhaps bonded less intensely than other marriages over their first years, he at least seems to know her temperament.

Jon’s smile falters, and he pushes up to a sit. Though he remains in the bed, linens covering him from the waist down, his night shirt loose around his neck, Dany sees the look on his face and prepares herself to receive more bad news.

“Tyrion knows.”

“You told him?” Dany says, sitting up quickly. He has confided not in his wife, but in _ Tyrion _? This, she cannot forgive. This will ruin them.

But she’s misunderstood. “No,” Jon hurries to assure her. “I didn’t tell him. He found out, or Varys did.” He stops there.

“And?” she says, trying hard to make it a question and not a command. But she hears the sharpness in her own voice. She watches Jon struggling, caught between giving an unflattering report about another, or evading his wife. She doesn’t know what she will do if he doesn’t choose her. She doesn’t think she can withstand it.

“He asked me not to tell you,” Jon says in a sigh, at last. “He thought it would be best for all of us. For the realm.”

Daenerys frowns. Is he defending Tyrion to her? “You think I should show him mercy,” she says. It isn’t a question.

“I suppose I think you should hear his side of things,” Jon says.

“But Jon,” she says, unable to quite believe what she is hearing. “He encouraged you to keep secrets from your wife. From your queen, and his.” Had it been another man besides Jon, she thinks, she might have called it treason.

Jon seems to sense the thought. “You’re angry with me,” he says.

“For conspiring behind my back with my Hand? To keep things from me?” she breathes. “Yes.” She stands, climbs from the bed. Walks away from him, toward the fireplace, and turns back to him. He has risen from the bed as well and stands on the stones in his night clothes. Those ponderous, dark eyes of his are sad.

“I understand,” he says, nodding.

“What else did he say to you?” she asks, and Jon breathes in, looking at her. Does she have to remind him that it is he who has just suggested they keep no more secrets?

“He said only that he didn’t want you to put me aside, as it would upset the North and weaken your position there. And he badly wanted to convince me to put my own problems aside, and get you with an heir. And he—“ Jon sighs, defeated. “He suggested that I make a visit to a brothel.”

Dany is silent for a moment, certain she must be misunderstanding. “What?” she says, her voice flat and cold, and far away. Inside she has gone very still, to prevent herself from striking.

“When he learned of what hindered me, he came to me to suggest that I might find some sort of healing from a woman—he said there were women trained in the act as a healing art,” Jon says. It’s clear from his tone that he finds this to be a joke, unbelievable, and though Dany has heard of such things herself, in the temples of Essos, she is not put at ease. She doesn’t need to ask if Jon followed his suggestion, she knows he didn’t. Couldn’t have.

“Did he know what Littlefinger had forced you to do when he suggested this?”

“No,” Jon says. “But he learned, from my reaction.”

“So he knew everything,” Daenerys says. “Everything, before I did.” It pains her to a degree that surprises her, like she has been bitten inside, somewhere, by something that has drawn blood.

“I didn’t choose intentionally to conspire with him,” Jon says. “It’s just that he found out.”

“When was this?” Daenerys asks. Jon hesitates, looks like he doesn’t want to answer, but he does.

“About seven moons ago.”

Seven moons ago. And then it hits Dany. Seven moons ago was the time when Daario arrived, and she had taken him into her bed. Tyrion had known, and had helped her to hide it from Jon. Or so she’d thought. But she realizes now, how her Hand might have attempted to protect her from two sides—a contingency plan, in case the cover-up hadn’t worked. “He made this suggestion to you in some deeply misguided attempt at creating a sort of equality between us?” she says.

Jon looks utterly defeated. “Yes, Your Grace,” he says. “I believe that was his motivation.”

_ Your Grace _. She doesn’t miss that, this reversion back to her title over her name. She knows that in his heart, she is his queen. Using her title, she thinks, signals both his desire to serve, and his regret. This is yet another thing for him to feel guilty about. She isn’t ready to absolve him for this, however. Not entirely. Tyrion has in some way known her husband better than she knows him herself. Though she understands that her own actions contributed to it, this conspiracy of her hand and her husband’s, it upsets her deeply nonetheless.

Jon moves toward her, and when he is close, drops to a knee. He isn’t close enough for her to reach out and touch. He bows his head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I swore an oath to you as my queen, to serve you with my counsel and my voice, and I betrayed it.”

She considers withholding her affection for him, but decides quickly that won’t do anyone any good. Instead she steps toward him, puts her hand on the back of his head, and presses him toward her. His forehead leans neatly into her womb, the flesh just above her mound, his nose and lips aligning with her sex over her nightgown.

“We’ve both done things we regret,” she says. And then, “Kiss me.” The words slip from her mouth impulsively, before she can stop herself. Jon places his hands on her hips and raises his dark eyes to hers, checking her face, and places one kiss on the fabric covering her mound. A little thrill goes up her spine. Jon doesn’t move. Awaiting her command.

“Rise, husband.”

“Am I forgiven?”

“Yes,” she concedes. As Jon stands, she thinks about Daario, in her bed.

“Am I?” she says suddenly.

Confusion clears and Jon’s eyes darken as he understands her meaning. He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her toward him. Kisses her forehead, a gesture of such tenderness, Dany feels her anger for him melt away. “I forgave you a long time ago, my queen,” he says. “Nearly the moment I knew.”

How can she not, then, forgive him all his choices? “Go on then,” she says, pulling away, smiling, giving him a little bump with her hips. “Attend to your duties.” She lets go of him and he slips away, smiling back at her. “It’s well past time I dressed for the day.” She goes to the door to the hall, opens it. “Have Missandei brought to my chambers,” she says to the guards there, and with a final glance at her husband, departs to her own quarters.

  
  


“It is worse than I imagined,” Missandei says. 

Daenerys nods. “Yes.”

“Truly I had not imagined--” Missandei cuts herself off. Never has Dany seen her so shaken. “And he told you all of this freely?”

“It wasn’t easy for him,” Dany says. “But yes.”

“That must have been difficult to hear,” Missandei says. “You did not expect to hear such things about your husband.”

They are sitting at the drawing table in Dany’s chambers. Missandei had entered ready to brush out and braid Dany’s hair, but as soon as her friend had shut the door behind her, Dany had grabbed her by the hand and drawn her to sit, and had told her everything.

“It was very difficult,” Dany says now. It had been difficult not to go immediately to Drogon and scour the sea for Kraken-sailed ships.

“But now you can understand everything. Now it all makes sense to you.”

Dany nods slowly. She has a far-away feeling, her brain whirling with so many thoughts that none of them can seem to settle. It does make sense. Why Jon sometimes responded to her touch as if it was torture. Why he seemed to vacate himself when they would lie together. Rape had a way of teaching someone how to leave their body. As Jon had spoken about it all, she had watched the telling drain him to exhaustion. How much more was there that he hadn’t told her, hadn’t been able to bring himself to speak about? “A _ brothel, _” she says, overwhelmed, and Missandei reaches out, and takes her hand.

“He did what he had to do to survive,” she says.

“Yes,” Dany says. “But he shouldn’t have had to. I’m going to outlaw brothels. If Jon was in one against his will, think of how many others might be.”

“You must do what you feel is right,” says Missandei. She seems distracted as well, as distressed by the news as Dany is now, in the reliving of it. In front of Jon, she had fought to hold herself together, for him. Now she finds she would like very much to fall apart.

“I admire him greatly,” Missandei says.

“Yes,” Dany agrees. “I admire him as well.” Admire is not a strong enough word for how Dany feels about Jon. The gentleness he is capable of showing, to her and the children of the court, seems suddenly an incredible feat. How did someone live through that, and still find a way to be steady, as Jon is steady, and kind, as Jon is kind? There is a part of her that wants to go back to him right now, to stay with him the entire day, to hold him and be held. To be near to him.

“Many men who had suffered what His Grace has suffered would have become dangerous,” says Missandei. “The king did not.”

“I think he fears he is dangerous, though,” Dany says. In her mind she sees Jon’s wolf. Jon’s eyes going black. Jon pouncing on top of her. “I think he fears himself.”

“But do you think he could ever hurt you?” Missandei says. 

The question snaps Dany back into herself, brings all her spinning thoughts to a halt. “No,” she says. “I know he wouldn’t.” Her mind finds a singular focus. “But someone else was willing to.”

  
  
  


The halls of the keep are cold as stone as she makes her way through them, in her nightdress and heavy velvet robe of white, Grey Worm and a retinue of Unsullied following behind her. Morning light breaks through the painted glass windows in the halls, cold light that warms nothing. She misses Essos with a sudden pang, misses the feeling of sun on her skin.

She pushes into Tyrion’s chambers without knocking. There are no whores, at least. Her Hand is sprawled on his bed, prone, his mouth open, snores issuing loudly forth. On a bedside table, a goblet of wine has spilled across a tome, doubtless the entire thing is now ruined and useless. Daenerys takes a deep breath and then summons her Queen’s voice, speaks from the very depths of her:

“My Lord Hand.”

Her voice rings throughout the room, cold and sharp with distaste. It works. Tyrion snorts and sits up quickly, startling. She watches the wince of pain that immediately wrinkles his face, he is doubtless queasy, his head pounding with the after-effects of too much wine.

“Your Grace,” he says, blinking, looking at her where she stands with Grey Worm behind her. “Forgive me, what—what has happened?”

“What has happened,” Daenerys repeats coldly. “Yes. I shall tell you, my Lord Hand, what has happened, as apparently it is my task to keep you informed, and not the other way around.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion says, more slowly now. Sensing the dangerous ground he walks on. “I don’t understand. Perhaps I might have a moment to dress, and we can meet in the council room.”

“Go on then,” Daenerys says. “Dress.”

Tyrion nods, relieved, and waits for her to leave. She raises an eyebrow, unmoving. When he sees that she has no intention of leaving him in privacy, wariness falls over his features. He slides from his bed and casts a somber glance at her before going to his wardrobe. She keeps her eyes fixed on him, allowing him not even a moment's reprieve as he bends to pull on breeches, stepping into them, casting a suffering look at her as he buttons them at the groin. Then he pulls on a doublet, swaying unsteadily as he struggles into it.

When he is finished, he turns to her and gives a bow. “How may I serve, Your Grace?”

“Torgho Nudho,” Daenerys says. “Bring him in.”

She watches Tyrion’s face as Varys is brought in behind her. There is a satisfying amount of confusion and alarm on it. She waits motionless for Varys to come to stand before her alongside Tyrion.

“Your Grace,” the Spider says with a bow. “How may I serve?”

“Lord Varys. I have summoned you at this early hours because I am certain you have failed me. What I am uncertain about is how.”

“Your Grace?”

“Last night my husband had a tale to tell me,” she says.

The words sound in the room like a gong. Varys’ face remains expressionless, but Tyrion gives himself away, his brows furrowing in concern.

“Either you have failed me, Lord Varys, by failing to uncover this tale—one which should have been easily uncovered—or you have failed me by withholding information from your Queen. I ask you sir: which is it?”

Varys inclines his head in a deep bow. “Forgive me, my queen. I confess, I did uncover the information some months ago. My little birds brought me a tale that was told upon a distant sea. I made the decision to tell no one. At the time you were experiencing a certain . . . complication in your marriage, Your Grace, and I did not wish to complicate matters further.”

“A complication.”

“As is your sovereign right, of course. A ruling queen must complicate her marriage in any way she desires, sure as any king would do.”

Fire lights in Daenerys’ belly and flames all the way up her insides, until it has nowhere to go but to release out her mouth.

“How dare you stand before your sovereign and insinuate that because of choices I made, I was not worthy of being told the truth about my husband,” she says. Varys rapidly sees his mistake, and adjusts.

“I’ve ill expressed myself,” Varys says. “What I mean is that I did not wish to tell you anything that might temper your joy, Your Grace. We were all so gladdened to see you happy.”

“Hold your tongue until I tell you otherwise, Lord Varys,” Dany says. The Spider sets his mouth, and inclines his head. She turns her eyes to Tyrion.

“And you?” she says.

Tyrion looks at her, his eyes shot through with sadness, and then drops his gaze. He opens his mouth to speak, then gives a shake of his head, and drops down onto his knees.

“I knew.”

“You knew. And my husband knew. And you kept this knowledge from me behind my back.”

She waits for Tyrion to make some silver-tongued excuse. But he only nods.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Why.”

“Many reasons. All of them foolish.”

“Yes. Give them to me anyway.”

“I was afraid of how you might react. I thought you might wish to put him aside.”

So it is as Jon said. And yet, this statement remains offensive in so many ways, Dany doesn’t know where to start.

“And why shouldn’t I put him aside, if that was what I wanted? Why did you deem it your right to choose for me, in this matter? You are my Hand. You should have informed me, and let me choose.”

“You’re right, of course, Your Grace.”

“Yes. I’m right. But let’s not discuss that. Let’s discuss the fact that you believed me to be cruel enough and small enough to put aside a good man because of things that were done to him. Things that were also done to me. Do you think so little of me, Lord Tyrion? Or do you think so little of those who have been raped?”

The word burns up all the air in the room. Jon did not use it. Couldn’t bring himself to. But Daenerys can, and she will. She was raped. Jon was raped. She wants to burn this world of men down.

"I have been contributing to the horrors of my husband's ordeal for months," she says, seething. "And you knew what was happening, and yet you said nothing. Nothing to save either of us."

Tyrion can barely bring himself to meet her eyes, but he does. He looks at her, and then he shifts his eyes to the table. Daenerys follows his gaze. Lying there in a strip of light is the pin she had made for him. The Hand of the Queen.

“Shall I turn it back over to you, Your Grace?”

“You chose what you thought was best for the realm over me,” she says.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Tyrion admits. She looks to Varys. He inclines his head.

“It is true, Your Grace.”

“And yet, that is exactly what I asked you to do. Isn’t it?” she says, looking at Varys. Seeing the surprise in his eyes as he nods again.

“It is, Your Grace.”

Daenerys takes a deep breath.

“You may keep your brooch, Lord Tyrion. For now. You may also keep your title. But know that it means little to me, now. In fact, it means nothing. And it will mean nothing until you bring me Euron Greyjoy, so that he may be subjected to the Queen’s justice.”

Tyrion looks at her somberly, sadly. He bows his head. “Thank you, my queen. I know it means little now, but I shall try and do better. For you.”

Daenerys regards him coldly. She leaves without answering.

When she leaves Tyrion, she finds Jon in the courtyard working with the young swordsmen and women, together with Arya. She stops on the upper balcony to observe. Watching the way he moves. He is a warrior. His job has been to slaughter, so many times. So many men. It is clear in the way he holds himself, the way he moves, that he can be dangerous. Deadly. And yet there is a gentleness now, when he is among the children. She sees the way they look to him, the girls and boys, their faces shining with admiration, or carefully composed in attempt to impress Jon, their teacher, to make him proud. She thinks of the stories she has heard of Catelyn Stark, and hopes that Jon’s father was different. That he allowed Jon to make him proud, when Jon was a small boy, eager to impress.

Her gaze shifts to Arya. Jon’s sister is already looking at her, has been aware of Daenerys’ presence, most likely, for some time. Arya turns her head slightly to Jon, and this subtle movement is all it takes. Jon looks up, and finds Dany there, where she stands, looking down at him.

He smiles.

Dany’s breath draws quickly inward, and she smiles back. She remembers a time, early on in their marriage, when she had found Jon at the same pastime she finds him now, and when Jon had seen her watching him, he had startled—nearly panicked—and all the joy had gone out of his face, at the sight of her. Had been replaced by strain. Now he smiles at her as if she causes him joy and Dany is shocked to find how deeply it affects her, how Jon’s smile seems to send warmth spreading from her chest to her toes. From the corner of her eye she sees Arya look at Jon, and look back at Dany. Her expression reveals nothing, there is no way to tell if Arya approves or disapproves, and Dany doesn’t care. She doesn’t need Arya’s approval. Arya has other things to offer; things that Daenerys intends to ask her about this afternoon, when Jon is otherwise occupied. Jon turns back to the students. “And who are we fighting for today, Alys?” he asks.

A girl with red hair and a face of freckles raises her sword. “The dragon queen!” she cries.

“Aye!” says Jon. “The Dragon queen!”

The children repeat his cry, taking it up, and Jon turns back over his shoulder, and looks at Daenerys, and for a moment, she remembers the way it feels, to have Jon Snow in her corner, again. Remembers the way his support can bolster her when she feels alone and unsteady. Remembers the way his love can warm a courtyard as well as any sun.

That evening, there are new faces at court for the last meal. Faces eager to meet her, pledge their fealty to the queen, making elaborate presentations of gifts, try to obtain her favor. Jon should be with her to greet them, but somehow he slips away, and so Dany manages on her own, Tyrion silent at her side, a marked change from his usual garrulous demeanor, and Missandei there to lend her assistance. Dany doesn't know how she has managed to learn the names of every lord and lady in the realms, or so it seems, but she is grateful for it. Because she understands now that it is part of being a ruler, she accepts it with grace. These moments are important.

It all leaves her tired, however, and she is glad when the hour grows late enough for her to take her leave. She bids Tyrion good evening with a nod of her head, nothing more, and he goes to his chambers looking like a dog left out in the rain. She and Missandei retire to Dany’s quarters, where Missandei will help her undress and comb out her hair, as she does every night. But when Daenerys pushes her door open, she is surprised by what she finds there.

Jon is standing by the fire, facing it, but he turns as she enters and Daenerys can’t help it—she lets out a little gasp. Her husband is wearing only a robe of red silk—no breeches, no boots, no undergarments—and the robe is tied so that a long pale V of Jon’s chest is revealed. The silk parts to reveal his clavicle, the muscles of his chest, a strip of faintly scarred skin running almost all the way to his navel. Gone are his chaste undergarments, his nightshirt, his braies. His hair is unbound already, hanging loose to his shoulders. Dany thinks he must have arranged himself like this with purpose. And she thinks, _ he is beautiful _ , this warrior who is her husband, the most beautiful man she has ever seen. And she thinks _ , is this something he learned to do in the brothel? _, this clever draping of silks, this becoming firelight that bathes his curls, which shine as if they have been freshly washed, and it floods her, she is overwhelmed by sadness and fear and desire. The knowledge of what he has lived through rushes into her in a way it has not yet done, and she feels it, suddenly. Feels how it must have been, for him to be confined to a room where men and women came and paid coin to use his body—Jon’s body, her beautiful, kind husband’s body—in whatever way they chose, and the things Jon must have learned to do in order to survive it.

“Your Grace?” Missandei says quietly from behind her, barely more than a whisper. Daenerys has forgotten she was there. She looks over her shoulder and nods, dismissing her friend. Missandei slips away into the dark hall, discreet as ever.

Daenerys turns back to her chambers, shutting her door behind her. “Jon,” she breathes, and he smiles at her, his sad smile. He meets her gaze, but makes no reply.

She goes to him, her heavy velvet dress and white furs brushing the cold stone of the floor of her chambers. A glass of wine is in his hand, and he holds it up to her as she approaches.

“Thank you,” she says. He nods, and steps toward her, putting his arms around her waist. Looks down at her. She searches his eyes. Is he here, with her? Does it matter? He’s made this effort, after all. But Dany can’t stop herself from wondering if this is genuine or rehearsed. How much of it is something he’s done countless times before, for—what would she even call them? His clients? His rapists?

Jon notices something. Of course he would. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” she says, but she knows immediately that it is a lie. And because they have agreed not to lie to one another, she says, “It’s only that you needn’t perform like this, for me.”

Jon flinches visibly. “Perform?”

She has wounded him. But she won’t back down, she isn’t going to bed him if he’s doing this out of some rote sense of duty. “I only wonder if this is something you learned, or were taught, to do.”

He releases his arms from her waist and takes a step back. “In the brothel, you mean.”

She sees the hurt in his eyes, but she knows she must press on. She needs to know. “Yes. Please, Jon, I don’t want to hurt you. I just don’t want you feeling like you have to do any of that for me.”

Jon lets out a long sigh and turns away from her. He goes to sit in one of the chairs before the fire, bending forward toward the flames, as if seeking warmth, or comfort. Resting his elbows on his knees.

“I want very badly to give you what you deserve, Daenerys,” he says.

Dany goes to him, sits in the opposite chair. Waits.

“The things I did in the brothel, the things I was forced to learn, as whores are forced to learn,” he says bitterly, his voice suddenly rising, and Dany sees a glimpse of the anger he must be holding inside of him. “They worked. That’s the truth of it. So I thought, if I tried,” he glances at her, and she nods, encouraging him to go on. “I thought they might work with you. That they might help us both.”

Daenerys doesn’t know what to do with this confession. Does he truly want to lie with her tonight or not? Is it desire or duty that propels him? She can’t tell from his answer. “What is it that you want to give me?”

Jon looks at her like he can’t believe there would be any question. “An heir, of course,” he says with conviction, and Dany sees a touch of the king in him, of the commander. Is reminded that Jon was a king in his own right, once. “And beyond that. As I’ve already told you.”

_ The pleasure a man can give a woman. _He had said it only this morning. And then he’d proven he was capable of giving it to her, certainly. As for the heir, well. Dany decides she needs to tell him. About the witch, the words she’d spoken that Daenerys is starting to think might be true.

“Did you speak to my sisters?” Jon says suddenly, surprising her. Frustrating her as well. Though she knew it was a risk, she had hoped to keep it from him.

“I did.”

“Arya told me,” Jon says. “She won’t keep things from me.”

“I see that now,” Dany says evenly. She had met with Sansa and Arya that afternoon, in a library in a wing of the Keep that was far from Jon’s quarters. Hoping to keep the meeting private. As she suspected, Jon’s sisters had known what had been done to him. She didn’t begrudge them that, or him. They had been hesitant at first, to confer with Dany, but once she had made them understand she wasn’t going to put their brother aside, a tenuous peace had been reached between them. Arya had challenged Dany about Daario, of course--as Dany had expected she would. “I see the Second Sons are leaving for Essos,” she had said, her chin raised, and a challenge in her voice.

“Your brother and I had reached certain agreements, about our intimate affairs,” Dany had replied. “Would you like to hear about all of them?”

Arya had looked at her with a certain grudging respect. Dany would not apologize to her for things that had occured in her marriage, that Arya stood little chance of understanding. Eventually she had agreed to do what Dany had asked. 

“I thought we were going to stop keeping things from one another,” Jon says now.

She won’t apologize. She is the Queen, she doesn’t have to justify her actions to anyone. Not even to her husband.“I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” Daenerys says. “And I had business with your sister that was a matter of state affairs.”

“Tracking down Greyjoy?” he says, his voice cutting. “That’s a state affair, is it? Not a personal one?”

Daenerys can’t believe he is being so sharp with her. She gives him a look that says as much, and Jon looks away. Kneading his hands together, he turns his gaze to the fire. She remembers how silent and unknowable she found him, in the early days of their marriage. She finds him unknowable now. And yet she still wants to take him to her bed. His robe is parted invitingly and she wishes to answer that invitation. And what does that make her? What sort of woman is she, if this man comes to her using skills he learned while under captivity and duress . . . and she allows it, knowing?

“What is it that you want?” she asks at last, frustrated. He drapes himself in attractive fineries for her, and yet seems angry with her. He confides in her about a man who did him unimaginable harm, and yet he doesn’t want her to take action against this man? Doesn’t expect it? He is confounding.

Jon’s entire body is stiff, like he is holding on to something with every muscle. Looking into the fire, he says, “You shouldn’t have done that without speaking to me first. Sending Arya after Greyjoy.”

“I didn’t send her anywhere. I asked her to deploy her resources.”

“Still, Dany. You should have consulted me. Did you consider the danger it puts Arya in?”

“What danger? Arya won’t be leaving the Keep. Greyjoy needs to be brought to justice.”

“That’s not your duty to undertake,” Jon says, with intensity. “It’s mine. He didn’t do these things to you.”

“He did them to _my husband_,” says Dany. How can he not understand this? “Greyjoy cannot be allowed to visit such horrors upon something that is mine and live.”

Jon’s head snaps toward her at this, and his eyes are aflame. “Something that’s yours? I wasn’t yours, then, Daenerys. I wasn’t anybody’s. And when it comes to matters of my family, whether I’m married to you or not, I deserve to have a say.”

“I am the queen—“

“And I am the king,” he says, pushing suddenly to his feet, his voice rising to a roar as he towers over her. “And my sister’s safety is more important than your need for revenge.” It stuns them both. For a moment they only look at one another, the silence in the room thick, and frightening, because Jon has never dared speak to her in such a way before, and it seems they are both frozen. Waiting to learn what comes next.

Then, very slowly, Dany rises to a stand. Meeting him. “You are under considerable strain,” she says at last, her voice icy, tightly contained. “And so I will forgive your loss of temper, this once. If you will ask it.”

A tension rises between them, one so strong that it practically hums. Jon stares at her, his chest rising and falling with his breath. Anger radiates from him in palpable waves, and Daenerys sees a flash of something wild in his eyes. The warrior. The wolf. Did anyone in House Stark ever realize the things their bastard son was capable of, in his ferocity? It is something people miss about him. Jon standing before her like this, all his power tightly reined in, stirs something deep within her. And within him too, perhaps. For Jon is looking at her with more than anger. There is desire mixed in there as well, a desire that she doesn’t think he could fake. Doesn’t think he would right now, even if he could. And then, this man who has endured things she can’t imagine lowers his gaze and sinks to his knees on the ground before her.

“I’m sorry, my queen,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Please forgive me.”

Daenerys watches the way he holds himself--the tight set of his jaw, his shoulder muscles clenching together. How he manages to keep his fury withheld, but only just. He is reigning it in for her, because of her—because she commanded it. If he can obey her now, she thinks, with his wildness roaring inside of him, there must then be no order she could give him that he wouldn’t obey. The power of that hits her veins and pulses through her. Sets her alight.

“I forgive you.” She gazes down at him, his head bowed. His black curls. From where she stands, she can see the end of one of the scars that mar his chest, peeking past the edge of his silk robe, and her gut twists. How can he not want her to annihilate the man who left them? “I can see that you are still angry,” she says. “You are allowed to be angry, of course. But you mustn’t harm me or yourself in it. I’m going to help you ensure that it doesn’t happen.”

Jon lets out a sound that is something between a grunt and a growl. It’s a noise, Dany thinks, of desperation, and desire.

“Are you ready to obey?”

A long breath shudders out of Jon’s chest. “Yes.”

Good. He wants to serve. So let him. “I have far too many clothes on,” she says. “Remedy that.”

“All I want right now is to take you into my arms and kiss you,” he says. “And yet I’m afraid that I’ll lose hold of myself and harm you—“

“I won’t let you harm me,” she says, in a voice that leaves no room for argument. “But I might let you kiss me, if you show you can do as I say. I’ve given you my command.”

The tension humming in the room vibrates so strongly Daenerys half thinks the wine goblets might shatter. It is a tenuous dance, holding this deadly warrior’s anger in her palm like a spark that she can play with but must not allow to roar into an inferno. She waits. She knows deep within her that Jon will obey.

“Do I have my queen’s permission to stand?” he asks.

“You do.”

Jon rises. He keeps his eyes on her as he moves his hands slowly to the buttons of her surcoat, and unfastens the three large white buttons there. He is so close to Dany that she struggles to hold herself still. An electricity seems to run between them, sparking out of his fingers and into her skin, through her clothes. It is as if her very bones are drawn toward his, and it takes all her restraint not to press herself to him. He must prove himself, first. Fighting not to give herself away with a shaky breath, Dany remains stoic as Jon removes the surcoat, and sets it neatly down across the top of a chair.

“The dress,” she says.

Faced with the complications of her dress, he glances at her and then moves around behind her, his fingers going smartly to the laces. Her finery doesn’t stump him. Of course it doesn’t. How many times must he have been made to do this as Littlefinger’s captive? The thought gives her pause, but as Jon begins to work at the laces on her dress, the ache her body feels for his drowns out any hesitations she might have over what they are about to do.

His fingers move nimbly down the weave of her dress, relaxing the fabric around her. The dress she is wearing laces from the back of her skull to the top of her seat, and Jon pulls patiently at each weft, loosening, leaning down. He goes down to one knee, to unlace the final bit, and when he has finished, he places his sturdy hands on either side of her waist, and then kisses her there, at the sway of her back, over the fabric just above the curve of her buttocks.

“I didn’t say you could kiss me,” Dany breathes. It takes all her willpower to do it—to correct him rather than beg him for more.

“Forgive me, my queen,” he says. Just a touch of sharpness. “I beg you.”

Daenerys gathers herself. “Rise. Continue.”

“Yes, your grace,” Jon says. He stands. “May I touch your hair?”

“You may.”

Grasping the thickness of her braids, Jon moves them aside, drapes them over her shoulder. He leans in close to her from behind, and she feels his lips at her ear and his breath on her skin as he grazes the backs of his fingers along her neck, and gently pushes one shoulder of her dress down, revealing her shoulder.

“May I kiss you here?” he says, and when he asks it, all the anger has finally leached from his voice. Now that it is gone, Dany hears nothing but longing.

“Yes.”

His lips press to the skin of her shoulder. A shiver goes over Dany’s entire body. Jon pushes down the other shoulder of her dress, running his fingers along her bare skin, and then he comes around before her again and pulls gently on the sleeves, until the gown comes loose and falls, pooling around her feet. He kneels to push it down—it is stiff, the fabric heavy, and only falls to her knees—and then, still kneeling, holds up one hand to steady her. She takes it and steps out of her gown, standing now before him in her chemise.

“Is that better?” he says, raising his eyebrows gently, anticipating the answer.

Dany arches hers in return. “No,” she says. She turns her back to him. Jon stands and begins the work of unlacing her chemise. The backs of his fingers move along her spine as he works at the laces. When the garment is ready to fall, Jon holds it, leans in to Dany’s ear and whispers, “May I remove it, my queen?” 

“You may,” Dany says, and then Jon disrobes her with a tenderness and respect that Dany doesn’t believe she has ever before known, moving with reverence as he pushes the full, white garment down over her body, his hands sliding over the curve of her waist. At her hips his palms encounter the fabric of the white hose that cover her legs. He stops there, a question, and Daenerys says, “Remove them.” And so Jon unpeels the tight garments from her legs, crouching down to do so, rendering Dany fully naked. He holds each foot so that she can step out, cupping each heel before placing it carefully on the stone floor. When she is freed, Jon puts his hands on her hips and Dany turns, takes in the sight of Jon on one knee before her on the cold stone, his head level with her sex, gazing up at her.

“Remove your robe,” she says, and he nods, eyes fixed on her. One hand pulls the tie loose, and Jon shrugs the red silk off his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground, so that now he is naked before her. Daenerys looks at him—his perfect flesh riven with scars. The crescent moon over his heart is unveiled—how did he survive it, that wound?--the X on his hip hidden from the way he is positioned. His cock, nestled there between his thighs, is not fully erect. It isn’t completely lifeless, but Dany isn’t used to having a man undress her and not be immediately ready. When Jon sees her looking at it, he presses his fingers into the skin at her hips, imploring her.

“I want this, Dany,” he says. “It just isn’t there yet.”

It stings, a little. That still, she is not enough. But, she tells herself, she has only just brought him down from a rage that must have been unsettling to him. Frightening, even. Jon flushes, cheeks pinkening with the humiliation of it, and so Daenerys nods her understanding.

“It’s all right,” she says. She longs for him to put his face near her sex, longs to touch his head and draw him toward her there, nestle him into her, but she wants to take care, doesn’t want to push him too far, too soon. So instead she puts a finger to his chin, applies a gentle pressure, and Jon rises, responsive to her signals as if he can read her mind.

“Kiss me,” she says simply.

Jon wraps one arm around her waist and draws her toward him. He looks into her eyes for a moment, and Dany tries to read them. She sees no panic there, or fear. Only reverence, only the look of a man enjoying what he sees. She knows that look. Then he quirks a tiny smile and presses his lips to hers.

She shuts her eyes.

They have done so little of this, over the course of their marriage, that the sensation is new and arousing in a way Dany hasn’t known kissing to be in some time. Jon devotes himself to her, his lips to hers, his tongue. He kisses her well—gently, at first, and then growing in passion and intensity. She bites his lower lip. Opens her eyes so she can see him and bites down until just the barest hint of pain wrinkles his brow. Then she releases him. Upon his release, he kisses her all the harder. Kisses her until she is pulsing with want.

When at last they break apart, Daenerys doesn’t look down to see if Jon’s cock has gone hard. She decides to go on as if that doesn’t matter. He looks at her, flushed, catching his breath, and she sees he is awaiting her direction.

“Put your hands on me,” she says.

“Where?”

“Everywhere. There’s no part of me that doesn’t want your touch.”

Jon nods solemnly before raising the backs of his fingertips and touching them to her clavicle. Keeping his eyes on her, he runs them down, over the curve of her breast, letting them come to rest at her nipple, where he moves his finger in small, soft circles—his touch the perfect pressure, not too light, but still gentle, aware of the sensitivity there. Her nipple peaks beneath his touch, and then he grazes his hand across her chest, to her other breast, running his fingers over it as well, unil that nipple answers.

“Is this all right?” Dany asks, her breath hitching in at the sensation.

“Yes,” Jon says.

“You’ll tell me if it isn’t?”

“I’ll tell you,” he says, his gaze darkening. “Can I kiss you here, my queen?”

“You may,” she breathes, and he cups her right breast with one hand, and bends his head to kiss it, gently. Then he draws her nipple into his mouth and Dany moans. Jon’s lips and tongue pull delicately at her with careful skill. He draws back, pulls off of that breast, and, with a glance at her eyes—Dany is gazing at him, mouth open—he moves to her other breast, running his tongue along the peak before drawing that one into the warmth of his mouth. 

Desire jolts through Dany’s body as he suckles her. Enough. “Carry me to the bed,” she says, and Jon obeys immediately. He pulls off her breast and wraps his arms beneath her seat, like he’s done before, lifting her from there. Effortlessly, gazing up at her, he turns and carries her to the bed, sits her down on the edge. Dany looks at him, leaning back on her palms, displaying herself for him, she realizes.

Jon drops down to his knees.

She watches as he hooks one arm underneath her thigh, and then the other. Then he flicks his gaze to her. His intent is unmistakable. And although this act has disturbed him greatly every time they have tried it before, Daenerys decides that here, she will let him try again. No, not let. Command.

“Drink,” she orders.

“Yes, Dany,” he breathes, and then presses his mouth to her parting. He goes immediately for her center and moves like he is thirsty for her, parched. His tongue darts straight into her openings and Dany moans and falls onto her back. Jon pulls her toward him then, jerking her closer with a resolute strength, so that her sex is on the very edge of the bed, providing him with more intimate access to her. He kisses her between her legs, pressing his face into her deeply. Inhaling her. Daenerys body shudders.

After a moment of this devouring, Jon slows himself. Begins to kiss her more deliberately, using his lips and then the flat of his tongue, lapping at her with long upward strokes. Dany lets out a little whine. The sensation of it is exquisite, and terrible, building a hunger in her for more. He runs his tongue along her, going lower down than she expects, than she ever imagined he might go, and Dany cries out at the surprise of it, how good it feels. Suddenly fear strikes her and she pushes up onto her elbows and looks at him, but she can’t see his face, only his black hair.

“Jon,” she says.

He pauses and looks up at her from between her thighs, over the expanse of her belly. One look at his eyes and she can see that he is, by some miracle, still present here with her. His eyes have not gone too glossy, too black.

“Is this all right?”

“Yes,” he says, and she can hear the truth of it. 

She wants to bury her hands in his curls. She wants to tug at him, just a little. But she doesn’t dare. She wants to see his eyes, his face, the entire time, and know that he is all right. Be able to keep an eye on him, in that way. But she can’t, like this. And then she thinks, there is another way that he can do this, that would allow her to observe him.

“I’m going to tell you what I want you to do, and you’re going to listen very carefully,” she says. 

His brow furrows. “Is this not pleasurable for you?”

“Oh, it is,” Dany sighs. “Very pleasurable. But I need to be able to see you.”

He understands at once, and nods his head. She reaches her hand down for his. He takes it.

“Come up here with me,” she says, pulling gently, and Jon moves easily, the muscles of his arms rippling, lifting him off the floor and onto the bed. He slides up alongside her, his gaze never leaving hers. Waiting for her next instruction.

“Lay on your back, Jon.”

Jon rolls onto his back, settling his head on the pillow. He keeps one hand on her flank and looks up at her with eyes that seem, somehow, so open and innocent. Dany pushes up onto her knees and straddles him at his hips. He knows what is coming. The pads of his fingers press into the skin at her hip and she raises an eyebrow at him. 

He nods. “Please, Dany,” he says, and pulls on her gently, urging her toward him.

Daenerys moves up the length of him until she is kneeling with her sex directly above his face. Doubt flashes through her mind—what is she thinking? Surely this is too much—but she pushes it away, and, knowing it gives him something to anchor himself in, gives him his orders.

“You will kiss me here until you make me peak.”

“Yes, Dany.” Jon says it like he’s swearing an oath, and she lowers herself onto his face.

Jon presses his hands into her arse and slides his tongue up inside of her. Dany lets out a cry and pulls up, startled. The sensation is so unexpected. Jon blinks, looking up at her, and Dany nods and lowers herself back down again. He does it again, pushes his tongue into her, and she moans. He moves it about the insides of her, and Dany thinks she has never felt anything so intimate. So intimate that she nearly begins to cry.

Then Jon’s tongue licks out of her and he is kissing her between her legs as if it were her mouth. He suckles at her petals there, drawing one into his mouth, and then another. He takes his time, seems dedicated to this task, as if he will keep at it forever, if that’s what it takes. It allows Dany to relax. At times, her eyes flutter shut, but she always opens them, checking in on him, his face. His eyes are shut.

“Jon,” she says, and he opens them and continues kissing her there, his eyes locking on hers. Dany finds the sight so stirring that she lets out a cry and pitches forward, bracing one hand against the headboard, holding herself up. With her other hand, she pushes his hair off his forehead, damp with sweat, and possibly with her own arousal.

“Are you still all right?” she asks.

Jon licks his tongue up the length of her. “You’re so beautiful, Dany. You taste so beautiful. I’m all right. Let me finish you.”

She nods, panting, and Jon keeps his eyes open and goes back to work, pressing her toward him with finger tips that grip into her arse, her flanks. Before very long, Dany can feel the crest beginning to build inside her. It grows until she is whining helplessly, biting down on her lower lip, leaning into the frame of the bed, her body shuddering. But her little sounds are pleading, because she is so close that her entire body seems to ache, but it’s not enough pressure, not quite.

“Jon,” she moans desperately.

For an answer, he grabs her hips and pulls her down onto him, so that she is seated on his face. He moves her hips with his hands, in circles, and that’s all the urging she needs. The cries issuing from her throat grow louder and louder as she allows herself to ride his face, grinding there on top of him. She hears herself crying out loudly, practically screaming. She can’t help it, doesn’t try to stop it. The sensation of it all is incredible, overwhelming. She has created something here with Jon, by taking him in hand. It has soothed him and freed him both, and that feels like victory. Her crest builds to a thundering peak, more than she can contain, and then shatters. She lets herself shatter, lets it rip through her. Take her under.

As soon as the waves subside, she rises up off his face and moves back, sitting again atop his chest. Jon breathes in deeply—would he have let her smother him?—and Dany looks at him in wonder. She can’t believe he was able to do what they have just done. She scans his eyes, looking for _ him _, and finds him there.

“I can’t believe you let me do that,” she says in awe. Jon smiles at her, running his hands along her hips.

“I would ask if you enjoyed it,” he says. “But I think you let the whole Keep know.”

Dany’s mouth drops open, and then she is laughing. She slides her hips back along the length of him and leans forward to kiss him, wanting to taste herself on him. She does. Jon is generous, kissing her back fully until she pulls away.

She remembers then his own arousal. It’s possible that he has hardened by now, but she couldn’t tell without looking, and to look, to check, would make an affair out of something that she wants to be very careful with. “You won’t spend tonight,” she says, very softly, but making it clear it is a statement, not a question. Jon’s eyebrows knit with something that is maybe pleasure, or maybe pain, or both, and he nods. Accepting it. It’s better this way. This is how she will both command him and spare him, from any embarrassment he might have over the responses of his body.

“Is that my punishment?” he says quietly.

“Is that what you want?” she asks.

Jon breathes in deeply, gazing at her. Into her eyes. At last, he gives the barest nod. “Sometimes,” he says, his voice low, barely a whisper.

“All right,” Daenerys nods. “Then it is.”

Jon lets his breath out, and wraps his arms around her. “I want to feel you,” he says, and she obliges, lowering herself so that she lies on top of him, along the length of him, and now she can feel it—Jon is hard. Fully hard. The power he has handed her, or that she has taken, fills her up and she can’t help herself—she releases a flurry of kisses, placing them on his brow, his cheeks, his nose, kisses him all over his face. She can’t believe he is hers. When she pulls back to look at him, Jon smoothes her hair back from her face, smiling. “Your braids are all ruined,” he says. 

“Mmm,” Dany hums. “What will people think?”

The corners of Jon’s eyes crinkle with a smile that is the most sincere she believes she’s ever seen him wear. “Thank you,” he says quietly. She understands what he is thanking her for, and she nods. He pulls her close to him and presses his face between her breasts, kissing her there. She puts her hand in his hair and grips into his curls with more force than she has allowed herself in the past. She has thoughts about how she’d like to pull on these curls while Jon dedicates himself to her orgasm. She won’t do it yet. But she believes that one day, she will be able to.

“Dany,” he says, murmuring into her breast, his lips still on her skin, his breath hot there, and then pulls away to finish. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

Dany tugs on his curls gently, tilting his face up so he can see her.“You had some reason to, I suppose,” she says. “I did not find it wholly unappealing.”

Jon’s eyes narrow thoughtfully, and he nods. Then he says, “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Her eyes had been going hazy with the warm feeling of being sated and safe, here in Jon’s arms again, the tension between them dissipated. But with those words her gaze sharpens. Her stomach lurches. What new horror might he reveal to her, now?

“Go on,” she says, eager to get it over with. “Tell me.”

“I took the steps I did tonight because I wanted to move forward. And I figured, if I can go into battle with odds like the ones I’ve gone in to, surely I can also find a way to please my wife. It wasn’t insincere, any of it. I did it because I wanted to.”

“Oh,” Dany said. So he had made a task of it. She supposes she will have to live with that, accept the efforts he’s willing to make. But it’s disappointing, nonetheless. To be merely a challenge he decided to take on. But before she can think on it anymore, Jon says,

“And because I’ve fallen in love with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My greatest thanks to Salon_Kitty who helped me wring this chapter out like blood from stone. This wouldn't be here if she hadn't urged and helped and pushed me along, helped me find the thing buried in this story that keeps me going. Thank you so much, Salon_Kitty!!!
> 
> Mistakes and shortcomings are mine.
> 
> Also, please allow me to point you toward an absolutely gorgeous video that NW_snow has made, inspired by Red Sea and this fic. If you like these fics, you will love the video. She brought it to incredible life. I'm not certain how to link here but she posted it as a gift to me so you can also find it that way. NW_snow--it's amazing. I'll copy and paste the link:
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/21965188


	15. Set it Running Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My greatest thanks to Salon_Kitty for her continued dedicated assistance in helping me eke this thing out, her intelligence and critical eye, and occasional hand-holding. The original idea for Jon to encounter people who once frequented him in the brothel came directly from  
Salon_kitty. A brilliant idea; credit and thanks to her for that!

“Oh,” says Daenerys. She doesn’t know what else to say. She sits up, straddling Jon’s hips again, her hair hanging loose around her face. “No,” she says.

“No?” Jon repeats, with a soft smile.

“I mean—surely you’re only feeling overcome with the feeling one has after--” She had been about to say ‘after peaking’, but Jon hasn’t peaked, and the little raise of his eyebrows says as much.

“It’s all right,” Jon says. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You don’t have to say anything.”

“I’m not startled,” Daenerys says. A lie. Her heart is pounding in her chest, blood so loud in her ears she can barely hear herself think. “You’ve only—I don’t want you to feel like you have to . . .”

“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” Jon says, his hand idly stroking her flank.

“We can speak about whatever you wish,” she says, and then without meaning to she is pushing up off of Jon and climbing from the bed. She goes to her chair, takes her robe and slips into it, ties it about her waist. When she turns back to the bed, Jon has pushed up to a sit, elbow draped over his tented knee. The look on his face is bemused, but there is vulnerability there, of course there is. The man has just told her he loves her. But how could he? Dany thinks he must be very confused. “Don’t misunderstand me. It’s only that the last three days have been rather intense, would you agree?” Was it really only yesterday that Jon had told her the truth about himself? Daenerys suddenly feels exhausted. She realizes with a little jolt of fear that she might even cry.

“You mean considering everything I told you,” Jon says.

“Yes. I imagine that an unburdening like that can make one feel—uncertain of things. And perhaps even lend a sense of devotion to the one they unburdened themself to. It’s all right.” That was it. Jon had confessed to her and then brought her to orgasm twice, it would make any man think he was in love, wouldn’t it?

“Truly, Dany, I’m sorry,” Jon said. “I shouldn’t have—perhaps you’re right. The last few days have been,” he searches for a word. “I’ve given you a good deal to think about, I suppose.”

“I’m glad you did,” Dany says. She means this. She wouldn’t want to go back to not knowing what she knows, not ever. But that doesn’t make this any easier. “I just think you ought to take some time before you—promise yourself to me in this way.”

Jon’s brow knits in confusion. “You’re my wife. You’re my  _ queen _ . I couldn’t possibly be any more promised to you.” 

“But it’s not necessary. You don’t have to love me. Just because I did whatever it is that I did, I . . .” Dany trails off, overwhelmed. She knows she has helped Jon. It was probably the way she had taken control of the situation, had helped him rein in his anger, that made him feel he was in love with her. Many men would respond to strength with devotion, she knew this. Had used it to conquer cities and take the throne. But she wouldn’t use it to manipulate her husband. Jon would feel differently in the morning. Perhaps he’d even feel resentful. If she told him she loved him—which, she realizes, her breath going shallow, she might—he’d only feel obliged to keep up the farce of it. She can’t bear any more farce between them.

“We’re both tired, I’d say. We’ll think more clearly in the morning,” she says at last.

She is afraid that Jon will begin to apologize. Or insist upon his love, when he can’t possibly know that yet. It’s a relief, then, when Jon nods calmly. “All right, Dany,” he says. Quirks a little smile at her. He rises from the bed, begins to pull his nightclothes on. Dany turns away, looking into the fire, trying to settle herself. There is a part of her that wants to leave the room, is desperate for air, but she knows she can’t do that to Jon right now. He’s far too vulnerable. Everything between them is far too fragile. She goes to crack open the window, despite the snow. 

“Would you like me to wash you?” Jon says suddenly, causing Dany to startle. She turns to him, frowning.

“You always used to do that,” she says. “I never could quite figure out why.”

Jon shrugs his shirt over his shoulders, pulls it down over his scars. Meets her gaze. “The first time we lay together, you did it for yourself. It seemed like a way I could serve you, and touch you, without slipping away. And I—“ he pauses, exhales sharply. Looks away from her.

“And you what?” she says, knowing she is asking too much, asking him to trust her with information again, after she has just reacted the way she has to his profession of love. The weight of that crushes in her chest, and although she remains on her feet, it feels as if something inside her has collapsed. “Forgive me for prying. You needn’t say more,” she says. With a deep, steadying breath, she goes to her side of the bed, and slips beneath the furs. She looks to Jon. With a somber look on his face, her husband gets back into the bed beside her.

“I—“ she wants to say something to soothe this tension between them. “Jon, I—“

“Don’t say anything, Dany,” Jon says tenderly. He touches his palm to her forehead, smoothes her hair back. Kisses her brow. “It’s all right. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Daenerys says, that awful shrinking feeling inside of her again. She doesn’t know how she will ever make this right. She snuffs out the candles by her bed and turns onto her side, facing away from Jon. He puts his candles out as well, so there is only the light of the fire. She waits to see if he will put his arm around her, uncertain if she wants him to or not.

He doesn’t.

***

When Jon wakes he immediately feels unsettled, though he doesn’t know why. Something is wrong, something weighs upon him—and then, as he reaches for it mentally, it comes crashing back. Last night. He’d told Dany he loved her, which had turned out to be a terrible idea. It seems obvious now, that it would upset her, startle her like birds flushed from a nest. He had just felt overcome with tenderness toward her. He had felt himself slipping away last night, into a black place, and Dany had brought him back. And then he’d been able to enjoy doing something with her that he had not enjoyed doing with a woman in a very long time.

But after everything he had revealed to Daenerys, he should have known a declaration of love would be too much to ask her to manage, if he had thought about it even for a moment. He lets out a sigh. He wants to get up and go to his own quarters. To hide. But he remembers that he has promised himself to turn toward Dany, and not away from her, and so he does. He rolls over, toward her.

Dany isn’t there.

He looks around the room, but it is empty.

A terrible feeling of shame begins to claw its way back into his gut. Twisting around his heart. He had managed to banish it last night—or Dany had, or both of them, together—but of course he should have known it would be here waiting for him. It makes him feel small, and he lets out a little moan.  _ To cleanse you of me _ . That was what he hadn’t told Dany last night, the reason he would wash her clean after sex. He couldn’t stand to soil her with himself and then leave her that way. Before the wave can take him under completely, he throws himself from the bed. He has to keep moving.

It’s actually a bit impressive, he supposes, looking back at the empty space, that she managed to slip out without waking him. It wasn’t like him, to sleep so deeply. More often he could be woken by the slightest noise, his body a delicate instrument tuned to note any disruption. Even a change in temperature could wake him.

He tries to think what he should do. But of course, there is nothing to be done, other than face the day. At the thought of breakfast he remembers that guests have been arriving from all over Westeros over the last few days. He’s been distracted and has allowed Dany to greet an entertain them on her own. He needs to help her, to do his share, he resolves. But perhaps not quite yet, better to ease himself into the day, at least. Jon goes to the door. Posted outside is Ser Willem, who Dany has appointed as Jon’s personal guard. 

“Good morning, your grace,” the man says. He’s older than Jon, a dark haired soldier with just a few flecks of silver in his beard.

“Good morning, Ser Willem. I wonder if you might send someone to Lady Stark and Lady Arya and invite them to break their fast with me in the lesser hall.”   
  
“Of course, your grace. I’ll send a boy.”

“Thank you. And invite the lord Hand as well,” he says, an afterthought. He knows Daenerys must have lit into the man yesterday, and Jon feels partially responsible. Tyrion had kept his secret faithfully; however misguided his advice may have been, Jon was still grateful for that. 

Once he has dressed, Jon heads down to the private hall to break his fast. His sisters and Tyrion have beaten him there, and Arya and Sansa already have plates of food before them. No standing on ceremony for his sisters. 

“Good morning, brother,” Sansa says, standing. Jon kisses her cheek.

“Good morning,” Arya says, and he kisses hers as well.

“Good morning, your grace,” Tyrion says. Jon gives him a nod. “You rested well, I hope.”

“Well enough, thank you,” Jon says. 

“Is your wife not well this morning?” Sansa asks, almost before he can sit. Jon finds this question irksome and is surprised by how quickly anger flares. Fortunately Tyrion answers for him, before Jon can even open his mouth.

“Her grace left before dawn on Drogon,” Tyrion says. “Since we’ve had a break in the weather, she felt it timely to survey the lands.”

Jon hadn’t even noticed the weather. He looks toward the windows and sees that indeed, the sky is blue rather than gray or white for the first time in days. “I heard you met her dragon, by the way,” he says to Arya. She smiles.

“You know how much I used to love the stories,” she says, stabbing her fork into a sausage.

“Aye,” Jon says, smiling back. “Loved them enough for it to overcome your reservations about my wife.”

Tyrion looks to them sharply. Sansa smirks. “It’s hardly a secret, Lord Tyrion,” she says. “Surely you can understand how we can support someone as our monarch while still holding reservations about their person?” She raises a knowing eyebrow at Tyrion, and Jon wonders why he thought this would be a good idea, and if he is going to have to throw himself into the middle of an argument here. “But you needn’t worry,” Sansa continues. “We’ve come around to our brother’s wife.”

“You have?” Jon says, surprised. He leans back as a plate of sausage and eggs is set before him, a buttered biscuit.

“Ale, your grace?” asks the serving girl.

“Please,” Jon answers.

Arya is the only one who manages not to react. Tyrion and Sansa exchange a gaze across Jon. As if he isn’t a grown man—as if he isn’t  _ the king _ —and isn’t to be trusted to make decisions for himself. He chooses not to dignify their reaction with a response.

The mug of small ale is set before him. “She came to us, to seek our counsel,” Sansa says, referring, no doubt, to the conversation Dany had with his sisters yesterday, about Greyjoy. He picks up his mug and drinks. “We like anyone wise enough to do that,” Sansa continues.

Tyrion smiles a wistful sort of smile. “The queen is wise indeed. And just.”

“Well. In certain ways, perhaps. It didn’t make Jon happy, though,” Sansa says. “Her seeking us out.”

“So we’re to discuss all of my most personal affairs, then?” Jon says. There is a sharpness in his voice that causes Sansa to look up at him. Jon cuts into his sausage, not meeting her gaze. “How do you even know that, Sansa?” He’d thought he had hidden his frustration with Dany from Arya and Sansa in his conversation with them yesterday, wanting to avoid further barbs for Sansa to launch at his wife. He had intentionally kept the discussion brief, getting the jist of what Daenerys had said, and then moving on. Apparently he hadn’t been as careful as he’d thought.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Sansa says. “You just seemed angry, when we told you about it. If Arya is going to undertake such an endeavor, it feels as if we all ought to share an understanding. Arya and I, and you. And your wife.”

Jon feels anger rise in his gorge. He takes another drink of the ale, trying to tamp it down. Stuffs a chunk of sausage in his mouth.Then a question occurs to him, and he voices it before better judgement can prevail. “Did you say Daenerys sought your counsel?” 

“Yes,” Sansa says, eyeing him suspiciously. “As we told you.”

“I was under the impression she’d given orders, not sought counsel.” There was a difference, Jon thinks. One he hadn’t taken into account when he’d argued with Dany last night.

Arya shrugs. “It doesn’t matter much, does it? You know I’ve been looking for him already.”

Jon puts down his fork, turns to her. “I knew no such thing.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Don’t be tiresome, Jon. She as much as told you she would. In our last conversation about it, together.”

Jon looks at Arya. “I asked you not to,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. Arya quirks her head at him in confusion.

“You didn’t order me not to. You had to have known what that meant.”

Jon had worried that he’d wake up to find Arya gone, indeed. But she hadn’t left the keep the next day, or the day after, and finally enough time had passed that he’d allowed himself to believe Arya would let the matter drop. A foolish thing. He remembers what Daenerys had said—she’d asked Arya to  _ deploy her resources _ . Not to go anywhere. He’d been too angry to think much on it at the time.

“Lady Arya,” Tyrion says mildly. “Perhaps you might meet with me this morning in my solar. It seems we would benefit from one another’s counsel.”

“I take it that you are looking for him as well, then?” Jon asks Tyrion.

“The queen’s orders, your grace.”

“If you don’t want Greyjoy found, you should tell your wife,” Sansa says.

This is too much. Jon’s fingers curl around his mug of ale, gripping too tightly. “I told you I didn’t want him found, and look at the good it did me.”

Arya looks at Jon. “Aren’t you curious as to whether I’ve discovered anything?”

Jon picks up his drink. He doesn’t down the entire flagon, but perhaps half of it. Then he stands, suddenly.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I have business to attend to.”

He expects one of them to say something, tell him how he should be doing everything differently than he is, but they let him go.

Jon is making his way back to his chambers to see if Dany has returned, when he hears the great thunder of Tormund’s voice behind him. “King Crow! There you are.”

Jon turns, Tormund’s face one of the only faces that he’s capable of finding welcome, right now. “You weren’t at the meal. Something keep you busy?” he asks, swatting his heavy palm into Jon’s arm.

“Doesn’t anyone have anything to talk about other than my personal life with Daenerys?” he says.

“Hmmm, likely not. You’re the king, what you do with your pecker is everyone’s business. You’re in luck though, I’m in no mood to hear further details about your cock. Another time, perhaps. Thought you’d want to ride out with me to your great armies, have a closer look.”

“Why?” Jon asks. “Did something happen?”

“Only your wife’s lover turning his tail and running,” Tormund says.

Jon immediately casts his gaze around, checking for anyone close enough to have overheard. “Tormund,” he says. “You have to be more careful.”

“Oh! Right. Sorry.” Tormund lowers his voice theatrically. “I only thought you might want to send the fucker off with a little something to remember you by.”

Jon can’t speak. He doesn’t want to go watch Daario Naharis and his men pack up and set sail; it is the last thing he wants to do. What would be the point? To assert some form of dominance? Jon has never been interested in dominance for dominance’s sake. Naharis leaving is Dany’s affair, not his.

“Perhaps not then,” Tormund says to Jon’s lack of response.

“Would you spar with me?” Jon asks. He needs to move. Needs to chase the brewing anger out of his body before some part of him that he can’t seem to control decides to become more beast than man.

“’Course I will,” Tormund says. “But I won’t let you win just because you’re king.”

Jon smiles for the first time all morning.

He is sweating in the yard, panting with exhaustion, when a voice from behind him says, “Had enough? Or do you want to go again?”

Jon startles at the sound of Arya’s voice. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says. His sister’s ability to sneak up on him is unsettling.

“Sorry. Old habit.”

“You’d best spar me instead, girl,” Tormund says. “I’ve given your wee brother a run on his coin, I have.” He throws a lazy punch at Jon. Jon dodges it, and then Tormund grabs Jon up in his arms and gives Jon’s body a shake, like he’s trying to loose apples from a tree. He sets Jon down, and Jon can’t help but grin at him. The sparring has left him feeling lighter, the sense that he could snap at any moment dissipated.

“Come on then,” Jon says to Arya. “Show me what you have.”

Fighting Arya is oddly like fighting himself, at times. They share a similar sense of how to move, of what should come next. From their shared blood, Jon supposes. He wonders what Father might make of it, if he could see them now. He’s not convinced the man would approve of Jon swinging his sword at one of his girls, even a practice sword. The thought takes the surety out of the blow he’s wielding, and Arya gets a foot behind him and pulls him to the ground.

“Fuck,” Jon says.

“You got distracted,” Arya says.

“I did,” he admits, pushing to his feet. “I was thinking of Father. I don’t think he’d like to see me sparring with his daughter.”

Arya frowns at this. “One of the last things Father did for me was get me fencing lessons with Syrio Forel. And one of the best things he did, too.”

Father never could have imagined what would become of his children, Jon thinks. It was futile to try to determine what he would or would not have approved of. “Are you sure they did you any good?” he says, and loops an elbow around Arya’s neck.

“Seven hells,” Arya says, struggling, but Jon manages to pull her down. He goes down with her to accomplish it, but still.

“Can’t imagine a father that wouldn’t be proud, a daughter that moves like she does,” Tormund says, looking at Arya. Arya slips Jon’s grip and moves like a hummingbird. She gets behind him and puts him in a headlock. Jon pushes up on his feet, planning to stand and pull her with him, forcing her to either let go or hang on to him like a child on her mother’s back.

But something goes wrong—his balance slightly off, perhaps—and Arya moves one hand to the back of his neck, and with the other, grabs him by the wrist and pins it to his lower back. Without warning, everything goes red, and Jon’s blood roars in his ears. Instinct takes over. His elbow shoots up and smashes into Arya’s nose.

“Whoah!” Tormund cries, and the impact of the blow shocks Jon back into his body.

“Fuck,” he says, turning. “Oh fuck, Arya, I’m so sorry.”

Arya’s nose is spewing blood. She wipes her hand across her mouth and shrugs. “It’s all right,” she says, but the blood is pouring, an alarming amount. Jon starts toward her, wanting to touch her, to make sure she’s all right, but it’s him that did this to her, and the knowledge of that sickens him. Twists in his gut. He thinks he might actually be sick.

“Jon,” Arya says. “What? It’s fine.”

“A fair blow,” Tormund agrees, but Jon knows they’re wrong. It wasn’t fair. Jon wasn’t himself, he snapped into that other person, that other version of himself, and although it was only for a moment, it was too much. He can’t be trusted, not with Dany, not with Arya. Not with anyone.

“Get her a Maester,” he says to Tormund, and turns and strides from the yard. He is nearly to the door to the keep when a great shadow blots out the sun. Jon turns, knowing what he will see.

Above him soars the scaled belly of an enormous dragon. Daenerys has returned.

****

After Missandei has helped her dress for the banquet, Dany takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door to Jon’s chamber. Other than the glimpse of him in the yard that she caught from Drogon’s back, she hasn’t seen him all day. Not for lack of trying. She looked for him immediately when she landed, and when she couldn’t find him, sent Grey Worm to try. Grey Worm had returned with information from Tyrion—Jon had ridden out on his horse just after Dany had returned. At that point, she had decided it was better to let him go. She had wanted to smooth things over between them, explain her pre-dawn disappearance. Tell him—well. She wasn’t sure what she was going to tell him, but it was clear they needed to speak. But it seemed that Jon needed air, as much as she had. She had chosen to let him have it.

She regrets the way she reacted last night. Jon’s words had startled her, and it wasn’t until she had ridden far out over the ocean with Drogon this morning that she’d been able to figure out why. She hasn’t loved a man before, not really. There had been a time when she’d told herself she loved Drogo, but the truth was she had loved his power, and loved her own by his proxy. Daario she’d had a deep fondness for, certainly, but even in Essos she’d known the pleasures he’d offered were for a little while, not a lifetime.

And as for Jon, well. Her doubts about his true feelings had not changed. He had just as likely been swept up by powerful emotions as not. She wouldn’t hold him to any of it.

She isn’t wholly certain Jon will be up for appearing at the feast, with what amounted to nearly all the noble families in Westeros in attendance, at a time when he seemed to be struggling. The thought worries her. Surely Tyrion will be able to think of some clever excuse to explain away the king’s absence, if he must, she thinks. But Jon opens the door to her, dressed in his formal attire. His cloak of dark winter furs about his neck, draped over his brigandine and a gorget that has been made specially for him, one set modestly with purple gems. “Good evening, Dany,” he says.

Immediately Dany senses something is wrong. “Good evening, Jon,” she says, trying to make a quick decision as to whether offering to excuse him from tonight’s festivities will help matters, or hurt. Tyrion informed her that he was upset today after sparring with Arya, an activity that usually he enjoyed. She should have spoken with him, should have tried harder. Should have been brave enough to tell him how she feels. She has wounded him, she knows, and she isn’t sure how to fix it. “Perhaps we ought to speak about last night before we—“

“I’d rather just escort you to dinner, if it’s all the same.”

Dany is taken aback. She can’t think of a time when Jon has ever interrupted her. His voice is overly formal, it borders on cold.

“I’ll allow it,” she replies, rather flatly. Coming off more imperious than she intended. Jon says nothing, just offers his arm, and she takes it.

They walk in silence, Missandei and their guards behind them, until it becomes more than Dany can stand. “Your day was difficult, I assume,” she says.

Jon seems to gather himself, or try to, anyway. He exhales and when he speaks, his tone isn’t sharp. “I struck Arya too hard, while sparring. I—lost control.”

“I see,” Daenerys says. Jon had done the thing he feared, and in doing so had injured Arya. She thinks of how she helped him last night, when he had felt precarious, but the time isn’t right for that, nor the setting. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you today,” she says. “I tried to find you but you were gone. I wish I had been able to –help you find some control.”

“No apology is necessary, your grace,” Jon says, his eyes straight ahead. “You can’t be there to control me every moment of my life.”

“That’s not at all what I meant,” Dany says. “Of course you don’t need me to control you, I would never—that’s not what I’m referring to,” she says. Color rises to her cheeks. What they had done last night had helped him, that much she was certain of. But that had been something they could do in an intimate setting, it had never been intended to carry outside their chamber doors.

“I know,” Jon sighs, his voice softening. It sounds like her Jon—the real Jon—is not quite so far away. “I’m sorry, Dany. It was a difficult day and I’d prefer not to speak of it right now.”

“All right,” Dany says. There isn’t another choice, anyway. They have reached the doors to the great hall. Before they go in, Dany says, “I did try to find you. I looked for you. I wanted to clarify some things.” She can’t stop herself. She wants him to know that she tried.

Jon looks at her. “Dany . . . “ he says, and then nothing else. She hopes he will continue, but before he can, the doors are thrown open before them, trumpets heralding their arrival.

The court is glittering with candlelight and strung all about with holly and evergreen. The hall is packed with wealthy, noble families from all the seven kingdoms. Every man, woman, and youth in the room rises when Daenerys and Jon walk through the door, including Jon’s sisters, Tyrion, and Varys at the high table. Jon is stoic at her side. He walks Dany to her chair and then stands, waiting. Dany puts on a smile and aims it out over the gathered crowds. Then she sits.

Everyone sits. The table is loaded with all manner of dish--stuffed hens and roasted quails, fish baked in salt, herbed vegetables soaked in oils and vinegars, roasted boar, meat pies. A band strikes up a rousing tune. Daenerys turns to say something to Jon, but he has leaned forward to speak across Sansa to Arya--who, Dany notes, shows no sign of being seriously injured.

“Are you all right, Arya?”

“I’m fine. I told you I was. Stop fussing over me like I’m some stupid girl.”

Arya glances at Daenerys. Dany doesn’t understand the meaning of the glance. She wonders if Arya wants her to say something, but she has no idea what; it seems as if anything she could possibly say is bound to be taken the wrong way by someone at the table.

“Surely your sister has suffered worse injuries, Your Grace,” Tyrion says.

“I’m not even injured. I don’t understand why we’re still talking about it,” says Arya, taking up a spoonful of meat pie, beginning to load her plate.

“There you have it,” Tyrion says.

“Because Jon feels responsible for everything,” Sansa says.

“Is that so irrational? I would say being king of the seven kingdoms comes with some responsibility, wouldn’t you agree?” says Jon.

Now Sansa glances at Daenerys. “Perhaps, but not sole responsibility. After all, you are the king consort.”

“What are we speaking about?” Dany says.

“Nothing,” Jon tells her. “There’s nothing to speak about.” He picks up a platter of roasted quail, forks a portion onto Dany’s plate, and then his own. 

“I think there’s a great deal to speak about,” Sansa says. “Weren’t we saying just this morning how we all ought to be standing on the same ground?” Dany watches as Jon turns and pushes some of the quail onto Sansa’s plate, clearly hoping everyone will busy themselves with the food and let the discussion end.

“They are matters for the small council and not for the high table at a very public feast,” Tyrion says.

“The king and queen haven’t called us to council in several days,” Arya say. “We hear one thing from the queen, and another from the king. Leaves us to make decisions on our own.”

“Arya—“ Jon begins.

“This is about Greyjoy, isn’t it?” Daenerys says. Jon stiffens at the very name and she immediately regrets speaking it. “Are we still fixated on that? Very well. Jon and I have spoken about the matter in private and come to an understanding. Have we not?”

Dany is looking at Sansa, expecting Jon’s immediate reply. But it doesn’t come. She shifts her gaze to him and Jon drags his eyes to hers like it pains him. “We have,” he says at last, but she can tell by the look in his eyes that it isn’t true, not fully.

“Again, these are affairs best addressed in private,” Tyrion begins. He hasn’t managed to get a morsel of food onto his plate.

“A toast,” a voice calls from the crowd. Daenerys reflexively picks up her wine goblet. Jon glances over his shoulder, and a serving girl places a tankard of ale before him. Jon takes it up.

It is a Tully, a relative of Arya and Sansa’s, who has elected to give the first toast. Dany can’t focus on anything he says, her mind too wild with thoughts. Had Jon mentioned last night’s disagreement to his sisters? Is that why they were going on about it?

The toast ends. “To the Queen and King,” cries the Tully whose name Dany can’t quite recall—is it Edmund? Danerys raises her glass, smiling, and then drinks. The hall drinks. She maintains the smile as long as she absolutely must, and then turns to Jon, leaning forward, so that Sansa and Arya might hear her.

“I had thought we had found some agreement yesterday when we spoke,” she says. “If you had so very many reservations, you might have mentioned them to me then.”

“Jon’s the one with reservations,” Sansa says. “Not Arya, nor I.”

This, Daenerys was not expecting. She had assumed Sansa was trying to pick a fight with her. Was she actually in disagreement with her brother? Jon keeps his gaze straight ahead, his face set like a stone. Determined to stay calm. Dany doesn’t know what to say.

“I’ve told you my reasoning,” Jon says. “I won’t explain myself anymore.”

Arya looks at Daenerys again. Daenerys frowns. What could the girl possibly want her to say? She isn’t going to argue with Jon here in front of his sisters. Not if she can help it. 

“I’d like to be the one to kill him,” Arya says. “But I’ll bring him back here if you wish.”

Jon thuds back into his seat with an angry sigh. He takes up his tankard and drinks. It worries Daenerys. He’s been adamant about not drinking for so long, why is he turning to it now? She doesn’t say anything, but Sansa follows her gaze.

“Why have you taken to drinking again?” she asks. “Is something wrong?”

“Sansa,” Jon says sharply, too loudly.

“We can’t just let Greyjoy live, you do understand that,” Arya says to Jon. “You must understand. We can’t let a man do what was done to you and not see him put to his end. Sansa and I agree with the queen on this.”

Before Daenerys can even begin to be grateful for this unexpected solidarity, the skin all the way up her spine prickles. She feels Jon’s anger before she sees it, before she hears it. She instinctively places her hand on his thigh and squeezes it. A feeble effort, one that doesn’t have much effect.

“Listen to what you’re saying,” Jon says, his voice too loud. Tyrion makes some motion at the band and the volume of the music increases. Daenerys keeps her gaze turned out, toward the guests, and a smile on her face. “Like there’s something wrong with me—as if I’m somehow weak, for not having sought him out already? That’s what you think, isn’t it? That you have to make this show of strength for me, because I won’t do it myself?”

“For the love of the gods,” says Tyrion. “Your Grace—Jon—Lady Arya, please—“

“Your wife may have gone behind your back but at least she wanted to do something,” Arya says. The accusation rankles Dany. She grips her fingers too tightly into Jon’s thigh. 

“He’s not alive any longer,” Jon says. “I’d feel it.”

“Who might know better than Yara Greyjoy?” Sansa says, lifting a piece of pidgeon pie delicately to her mouth. No one seems to be able to eat beyond Arya and Sansa.

“I have sent ravens to Yara Greyjoy,” Tyrion says tightly. “As I would happily have told you in a council meeting.”

“It wasn’t going behind his back as I knew you would tell him,” Daenerys says, smile on her face, her gaze forward. 

Jon turns to her. “But why didn’t you tell me first? I still don’t understand.”

“I knew you would protest,” Daenerys says. There’s no point trying to hide her motives any longer. “I thought I could bring Arya over to my way of thinking first, and then it wouldn’t matter if you protested. It would already be done.”

“You said it was because the decision was yours, as the queen,” Jon says.

“I am, and it was,” Dany says. Her hand is still on his thigh. “Anyone might disagree with me. Anyone. But in the end I will do what I think is right. Every time. Ser Jorah understood that, and Ser Barristan. My bloodriders understood that. I look forward to a time when the rest of you do as well.”

Jon is looking at her, and she turns to meet his gaze. She is afraid to meet with anger there, but she doesn’t. He is looking at her in a considering sort of way, his eyes dark and deep with thought. After a moment he smiles. A slight smile, a weak one that shows only one one corner of his mouth, but it’s there. And Dany almost tells him, right there, that she loves him. His sisters be damned. Tyrion be damned.

“Doesn’t sound so unlike something you said to me once, brother,” Sansa says. “Although you didn’t pay me the courtesy of doing it in private.”

“If you had challenged me in private, I would have returned the favor,” Jon says. “We won’t speak on this anymore tonight.”

It is a command, issued by a king. Sansa opens her mouth to protest, but then chooses not to, and looks away.

And then, before anyone can say anything else, another lord is standing to give a toast.

“How many of these can I expect?” Daenerys says from the corner of her mouth.

“Twenty, at least, your grace,” Tyrion says, sounding weary.

Daenerys smiles and nods. She feels very alone. And then Jon places his hand over hers, on his thigh, and squeezes it.

After the feasting, there is dancing. Daenerys watches, and sips her wine, and speaks very little. Beside her, the Starks are similarly reserved, though Arya and Sansa do speak in low tones to one another, from time to time. As the dancing goes on, Tyrion begins the work of presenting one courtier after another to Dany and Jon. Dany had felt some initial fear, that he would not be up to the task. But as he stands beside her, and speaks warmly to each lord and lady, one after another, she remembers that Jon has always done this—has always understood what was required of him, and performed his duties like someone born to it.

Still, it is a trial, as all Dany really cares to do is take Jon back to her chambers and explain herself, set everything to right. Unable to, she keeps his hand clasped to hers as much as she can.

The dancing goes late into the night. It seems to go on forever, but at last Dany leans over to Tyrion and says, “It seems to me the king and I have made an appearance of sufficient length, have we not?”

“I suppose so, your grace,” Tyrion says. “If you and the sisters Stark plan on taking your discussion back up at any time, I’d rather have you leave now anyway.”

“We won’t be,” Daenerys announces, loudly enough for all of them to hear. “These are matters to be discussed tomorrow, when we’ve all had rest.” She stands to make her exit. Immediately, Jon stands next to her and offers his arm. At last, Daenerys is able to file out of the hall. Missandei and Tyrion exit behind them. Dany glances back and sees that Sansa and Arya have followed as well. She suppresses a sigh, wishing that they were the sorts of young women who might relish the chance to stay once their brother has retired, to enjoy dancing and drink. Even though it did seem that they were more in line with her thinking then with Jon’s, she is anxious for a break from all these watchful eyes.

They turn around a corner and Dany sees a couple there, standing near the wall, their heads pressed together in discussion. Probably they’ve snuck away from the festivities for a little interlude in a quiet corridor, she thinks. Grey Worm and Ser Willem come up alongside Dany and Jon as the man and woman turn toward them. As soon as they realize it is the king and queen coming toward them, they each drop into a low genuflect. Dany is preparing to give them some greeting when she feels Jon stiffen and come to a sharp halt. She halts with him, and then two things happen seemingly at once: all the hairs on Dany’s neck and her arms stand up. Jon falls to his knees.

“Jon,” Daenerys cries sharply, turning to him, grabbing him beneath his arm, trying to hold him up. “Your grace?” Ser Willem asks, taking him by his other side. Jon gives a little shake of his head and pushes back to his feet.

“Forgive us, your grace,” the man is saying. Daenerys takes him for a lord, judging by his dress. He is standing in the hallway, directly in front of Dany and Jon, his wife on his arm. He is of a mature age, though not yet old, a bit of dark hair remaining on his head. His wife is blonde as a Lannister, dressed elaborately in a gown of red velvet and a white fur cape. Curiously, both of them have their faces angled down and away. “We’ll be out of your way-“

Dany looks to Jon, her hands still around his arm. His eyes have gone black, his hands are curled into fists, and his breathing seems wrong—too ragged, perhaps, too shallow. “What are you doing here?” Jon says, his voice a growl so menacing that Dany sees fear flash in the couple’s eyes.

“Tyrion,” Dany says sharply. She doesn’t know what is happening, only knows that something here must be contained. And that when Jon is like this—the way he is now—he is beyond her reach.

“My Lord,” Tyrion says, stepping forward. “My Lady. Good evening to you both.” The Lady is staring at Jon and her face is white, stricken. Dany turns, seeks out Missandei’s gaze. Missandei gives a little shake of her head. She doesn’t understand either.

“We—we were just leaving, your lord Hand,” the man says. “We’re—your grace, my king, we didn’t—“

Jon’s lips pull back in a feral grimace. Tyrion rushes to speak.

“Perhaps you will accompany me to the east wing, we’ve installed a new painting there that you simply must see. The resemblance of the Princess Rhaella in the painting to yourself is uncanny.” Tyrion touches the woman on her elbow and manages to steer the couple away from them, leading them off in the opposite direction with a final wary glance at Dany.

“Are you all right, your grace?” asks Ser Willem, looking at Jon with concern.

“What’s going on?” Arya says. When she sees Jon, his strange black eyes, she gasps. Looks at Dany. Everyone seems to be looking at Dany, except for Jon himself.

“Jon,” Dany says, using the gently commanding tone he has responded well to, in the past. He glances at her with his strange dark eyes, and then looks back at the couple, walking down the hallway, and Daenerys is suddenly afraid he will attack them. She reaches out slowly and touches his elbow, applying just a hint of pressure, trying to turn him in the other direction.

“Jon,” she repeats.

He looks down at her hand on his arm sharply, and she pulls it away. But he turns, letting her guide him in the opposite direction.

Sansa quickens her stride to come alongside Dany and Jon, and sees the blackness of Jon’s eyes. “Gods,” she breathes, and she looks to Dany. “What’s going on?”

Daenerys doesn’t answer. She is struggling to keep up with Jon.

“Jon,” she says at last, letting her voice ring out across the stone. A tone most know not to disregard. And it works, a little. He turns to her. His eyes are not his, and she wonders if she gave him an order now would he follow it, or turn on her?

“What’s wrong?Jon, what is it?” Sansa asks her brother, and reaches out to grab his arm—

“Sansa, don’t,” Arya says, but it’s too late. Sansa wraps her fingers around Jon’s arm in an attempt to halt him. He turns his face to her and Dany’s blood goes cold. Jon isn’t there. Her husband’s lips pull back, baring his teeth like a wolf, and from his chest there emits a terrible noise. The beginning of a growl. Sansa is startled and releases his arm, stepping backward. Jon looks away from her and strides back down the corridor. Ser Willem follows him. Dany puts her hands out to the Stark sisters.

“Let him go,” she says. She looks for Missandei, her eyes filling with tears, and her friend is there. Dany grasps her hand.

“My queen?” Grey Worm asks.

“Go with Ser Willem. Follow him, but don’t try to stop him. Make sure he’s all right. And that he doesn’t harm anyone,” she adds with a pang of regret. Grey Worm gives a nod and rushes to do as he’s told. “No one else,” she says to the rest of the retinue of Unsullied.

“Daenerys, what was that?” Sansa says. Her eyes are wide and afraid. “Is Jon all right?”

Dany looks down the hall in the direction Tyrion left. There is no sign of him, no sign of anyone.

“Come,” she says. “Let’s meet in my solar.”

On another occasion, Dany thinks she might have taken pleasure at rendering the Stark sisters silent. But considering the circumstances, all she feels is sorrow.

“We didn’t know,”Arya says at last. Sansa is shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Dany says. “How could you have?”

“We did know some of it. Jon did tell us that he was struggling. With a few certain duties,” Sansa says. Daenerys merely nods.

“But we didn’t know he’d been warging into his wolf,” Arya says

“But what does it mean?” asks Sansa.

“I don’t know. Only that it would happen when he would grow upset. Usually at the memory of something that happened to him, I think. I couldn’t always tell right away, it seems there are . . .degrees.” Dany looks at Missandei. She offers her a weak smile, a nod of support.

A knock on the door. They all turn their heads, hoping for Jon, but it is Tyrion and Grey Worm who enter instead.

“What of the king?” Dany asks Grey Worm immediately.

“I followed him, my queen,” Grey Worm says. “The king went to the stables. He took his horse out beyond the city gates. He ordered no one to follow him. His wolf was with him.”

“Shouldn’t someone go after him?” Sansa says. “Where is Ser Willem?”

“Sir Willem rode out after him, my lady,” Grey Worm says. Arya and Sansa look to Daenerys. She nods once, her approval. She doesn’t want to send more guards out after Jon, she knows he wouldn’t want that.

“The king may ride as he pleases. Even if the hour is late,” she says. “Ghost won’t let any harm come to him.” She looks to Tyrion. “And what have you learned?”

“Your grace, the people whose appearance so startled our king were Lord and Lady Fowler of Skyreach, in Dorne. They have departed for home, it seems Lady Fowler has suddenly taken ill. “

“And why did the king react to them the way he did?” Daenerys demands.

“I can’t be certain, your grace.”

“But you have a guess.”

Tyrion’s face is full of grief, as he says, “Were I to hazard a guess, I would surmise that the king recognized the couple from a time in his past. Judging from his reaction, it was an unpleasant one.”

Blood rushes to Dany’s head, heats her entire body. She should have known. Should have seized the people in the hall. How could she not have seen it? But Jon’s behavior that day had been erratic. His reaction had seemed like an extension of the mood he’d been in all evening.

“You believe these people may have hurt Jon?” Sansa asks.

“Given that they are Dornishmen, and knowing what I know of the proclivities of that region, I believe, Lady Stark--perhaps not  _ hurt _ , exactly.”

Dany won’t hear another word spoken of Jon like this, not while he isn’t even here. “Torgo Nudho,” she says. It is all she needs to say. She cuts her eyes to her guard, and Grey Worm nods, turns immediately to do as she has commanded, calling for the Unsullied in the hall to follow him.

“Your grace,” Tyrion says. Daenerys levels her gaze at him like a sword, she will broach no disagreement here. “We can seize the Fowlers if you wish. But do remember they are nobles of an important house in Dorne. And they have committed no crime, that we know of. My guess is only a guess.”

“Tell the Fowlers that we should like to receive the pleasure of their presence for another day. Put them back in the rooms they were in and post guards at the door. They may roam the Keep as they wish. With the guards at their side. Until my husband returns.”

“Yes, your grace,” Tyrion nods, and goes to do as Dany has bid.

“Should we stay with you?” Sansa asks.

Dany shakes her head. “No thank you. When Jon returns, I should like to speak with him alone.”

“Very well,” Sansa says hesitantly. “But when he does return—“

“I’ll send word right away, of course,” Dany says.

A knock startles Daenerys out of a deep sleep. She sits up, her neck protesting immediately, and realizes she has fallen asleep in front of the fire where she sat awake nearly the entire night, waiting for Jon. The hour is early, it is still dark outside, the sky only just going a pale gray with dawn.

“Enter,” she says.

It’s Grey Worm. “My Queen. Ser Willem has sent word. He is with the king now.”

Daenerys stands up, smoothing her hair. “I don’t understand. Where is he?”

“I will take you to him, your grace.”

“Torgo Nudho. Is Jon all right?”

“I don’t know, my queen.”

“Yes,” says Dany. “Take me to him at once.”

Grey Worm leads Daenerys through the corridors of the Keep, and then outside. Her concern grows as they cross through one of the outer courtyards, across the practice pitch, and eventually make their way to the kennels. A pit of dread settles into Dany’s belly when Grey Worm pauses to take up a torch from a sconce on the wall, then leads her beneath the dark archways. The stone walls create a great darkness, the air here smells like beast. In front of one of the pens for the hounds is Ser Willem. He bows when he sees Daenerys, his face composed, revealing nothing.

“Your grace,” he says.

The light of Grey Worm’s torch flashes into the kennel and Dany’s hand flies to cover her mouth. There on the straw is Jon, in his cloak and boots, curled with sleep beside Ghost. The sight is so disturbing that Dany feels the strength go out of her knees and has to force herself to straighten. She takes a moment to compose herself, then draws in a breath and makes her voice steady.

“Ser Willem, has the king perhaps had much to drink?”

“No, your grace,” the knight says gently. “He rode beyond the city walls on his horse. I followed at a distance. He set a punishing pace, but eventually he slowed and dismounted. I stayed in the shadows, as it seemed his grace did not wish to be disturbed. He . . . paced for awhile, among some trees, and eventually seemed to tire. When he came back he rode straight for the kennels. I sent one of the guard to find Grey Worm. I thought it best not to disturb him, but I thought you’d want to see him.”

“Yes. Thank you, Ser Willem. I’m grateful for your discretion.”

Ser Willem gives a gentle nod of his head.

“I should like to be alone with the king,” Daenerys says. “Make sure that no one disturbs us.”

“Of course, your grace.” Grey Worm hands her his torch. He and Ser Willem leave her.

Dany draws a deep breath and puts her hands on the cold metal bars of the gate behind which her husband has imprisoned himself. Pushes it open. Ghost raises his head and blinks at her, gives his tail a single optimistic thunk. Jon is curled on his side, his back to her. Holding the torch high, Dany comes around and crouches low by Jon’s face. Tears spring to her eyes, to find him like this. She blinks them back.

Slowly, Dany reaches out for his shoulder. She isn’t certain what she will find, who she will discover here inside her husband’s skin, but she isn’t willing to leave him here sleeping and wait to find out. Gently, she gives him a little shake.

“Jon?” she says. No response. She gives him another gentle shake, repeats his name.

“Jon.”

With a sudden heaving gasp, her husband jerks up and flies to the other side of the kennel, flinging himself away from her. He drops into a crouch, panting. Dany watches, stunned, the sudden movement and the power beneath it frightening to see. His eyes dart wildly about the small chamber and at last come to land on her. A trail of dried blood leads down from a small wound on his forehead. His entire body is a rigid muscle, coiled to strike.

She says nothing. She doesn’t dare move. She waits.

“Daenerys?” he says, and his face furrows in confusion, to find her there on her knees upon the straw, in the darkness of the kennels. “Are you all right?”

She nods. Jon seems to notice that he is in a crouched position, like a beast ready to pounce. She watches as he at last seems to understand where he is and shifts off the balls of his feet, sitting on the straw, leaning his back against the stone wall. He draws his knees up and buries his face in his hands, as if he wishes he could crawl away and hide. Lets out a low groan. Dany waits, but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move his face, doesn’t look at her.

It’s up to her then.

“Are you hurt?” She won’t ask if he’s all right—clearly this is not all right.

Jon breathes deeply, huffing. For three breaths, four, he doesn’t answer. Dany waits. At last, speaking into the ground, he says, “I’m not hurt. You should go.”

“Why should I go?”

“You don’t need to be here with me. I’m sorry I’ve humiliated you like this.”

“I’m not humiliated, Jon. You could never humiliate me.”

Still he won’t look at her. “Please go,” he says, his voice quiet. 

“Let’s go together.”

“Dany,” Jon says. “Please. Just leave me be. I’m not fit.”

“You’ve had a harrowing night. Come back to our chambers and get some rest. You’ll feel better after.”

“I’m not fit,” Jon says again, dragging his hands down his face, meeting her gaze at last. “I mean it, Daenerys. Just let me go.”

“Not fit for what?”

“To rule. To be the king, to be your husband. I’m not fit for any of it. Look at what I did to Arya—what I did to you. I lost complete control of myself last night. We were lucky it wasn’t in front of the entire court. What happens when it is? What happens when instead of striking Arya in the ring, I strike you in our bed?”

“These aren’t questions we need to answer right now—“

“Dismiss me,” Jon growls, seething. “Your grace. I am begging you, as your subject. Let me go.”

Dany feels anger rise in her own chest, feels herself grow hot. She pushes to a stand. “You are not dismissed. You are my husband, and you are the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Get up. We’re going back to our chambers. That is a command.”

Jon looks resentful about it, but he pushes to a stand. “Why won’t you just let me go?” he says, sounding miserable.

“Because I love you,” Daenerys says simply.

Jon stops. “Don’t. It’s all right. You don’t have to say that. This isn’t about that.”

“Of course I don’t have to say it. I’ve said it because it’s true.” She has no intention of standing here and arguing with him about it. She turns and walks out of the kennel, back down the dark hall, toward the arched entrance where pale light streams in, the sun beginning to rise. Ghost pads past her, loping ahead. She doesn’t turn to see if Jon has followed.

Grey Worm and Ser Willem stand at the entrance. “Thank you,” Dany says to them, and they step aside to let her pass.

“Your Grace,” Ser Willem says, and when he says it a second time—“Your Grace,” Daenerys knows that Jon is behind her. She pauses and waits for him to come alongside her. He does. Dany says nothing, just walks beside him, back to their chambers, the Keep beginning to stir to life around them.

“Come,” she says when they are alone again together, in her room. The only thing she is certain of right now is that Jon needs rest, and she intends to get him into her bed—their bed—and see that he isn’t disturbed for as long as need be. She moves her hands toward his fur cape to unfasten it, but Jon steps back.

“Don’t,” he says gruffly. “Do you have words for me?”

“Words?” Daenerys repeats, confused.

“If you’re angry with me, I’ll hear it now.”

“No,” she says. “What reason would I have to be angry?” She is concerned about him, certainly, but it isn’t the time to discuss that. She needs time to think, anyway. Everything can wait.

Jon makes no answer.

“You were out late into the night,” Daenerys says. “You need rest.”

He looks tormented, truly. As if he can’t decide if he wants to argue with her or cry or drop on the floor in exhaustion, and it’s difficult for Dany not to go to him and try to hold him, but she doesn’t feel that would be welcomed, right now.

“I’ll rest in my own chambers, with your blessing,” he says. The words hurt her, but she doesn’t show it. She only nods her permission. With a final look at her, Jon turns and goes. He pauses in the doorway for Ghost to lope through, then shuts the door behind them.

“Ramsay used to keep him in the kennels,” Sansa says.

Daenerys draws in a breath. This is hard to hear, shocking, despite the fact that she has already heard countless shocking details about what Jon has survived.

“How do you know that?” Arya asks.

“He told me. After I fed Ramsay to his dogs. Jon found the justice rather poetic, considering.”

“The Fowler’s will be executed within the fortnight,” Daenerys says.

They are in the council chambers. Missandei and Tyrion, Lord Varys, the Stark sisters, Grey Worm, and Ser Brienne of Tarth, at Sansa’s request. Sansa and Arya appear satisfied with Daenerys’ ruling, but Tyrion heaves a great sigh and turns to her. “Under what law, your grace?”

“I’m certain you haven’t forgotten my decree against rape,” Daenerys says coolly. What game is he playing now?

“Forgive me, but under the current law, visiting a brothel is not rape.”

“Then we’ll change the law,” Daenerys says. “That isn’t what matters. Jon was there against his will, and these people used him.”

“Them and many others,” Tyrion says. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but that’s the truth of it. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men and some women are visiting the brothels within the city walls every day. Are we to execute them all?”

“Only the ones who are using those who are unwilling.“

“And how are we possibly to know—“

“No one will be executed.”

Jon’s voice sounds from the doorway. All eyes in the room turn toward him. He is dressed, though rather informally, in just his breeches and padded tunic. His face is pale and ragged from lack of sleep. Dark circles beneath his eyes show his exhaustion. Rather than pulling his hair back into its usual neat bun, he has left it hanging lose around his face.

“Jon,” Sansa says. “Good afternoon, brother. Have you rested?”

“Why is a counsel meeting being held without me?” Jon says.

He looks at Daenerys as he speaks, and it’s clear he is angry. So be it; she can handle his anger. “We wanted to give you time to rest,” she says evenly.

Jon’s gaze is dark, and it sends a little chill through Dany. Even Sansa and Arya seem thrown off by this version of him—they wait silently, don’t offer up one of their seemingly always ready opinions on everything.

“I’ve rested. What does the counsel have to say?”

“Lord Varys has heard whispers that the people we encountered last night in the corridors once visited you when you were held as a hostage, and we are considering what ought to be done with them. Is Varys’ information incorrect?” If Jon doesn’t want the couple executed, she thinks, Varys’ information must be wrong.

Jon walks slowly into the room and takes his seat at the end of the table opposite from Daenerys. There is a long moment of tense silence. At last, Jon speaks.

“Lord Varys has surmised correctly.”

Then why does he not want them executed? Is she misunderstanding something? Is he? “Lord and Lady Fowler of Skyreach, of Dorne,” Dany says pointedly. “They did in fact see you when you were being held captive in . . ” 

“The brothel,” Jon provides. Dany hasn’t wanted to say it outright, and when Jon does, it has the effect of a cold blast sweeping through the room--a cleansing sort of assault. No one dares to react out loud, but Dany can feel the shock ripple through the room. The door to the chamber closes. She realizes Ser Willem must be posted outside of it, and she is grateful for the consideration he shows.

“Yes,” Jon continues. “Frequently.” He lobs the word like a weapon and Daenerys knows it is intended to hurt her. As far as she can tell, Jon has never set out to try to hurt her before. It injures her pride, to be spoken by him like this, especially in front of the counsel. But she knows the previous evening’s encounter has left him shaken. She thinks that whatever the Fowlers did to Jon must have been truly horrible, beyond her imagining, for one glimpse of them to have affected him like this. It is as if they have knocked all the goodness out of him.

“And you don’t want them executed?” she says evenly.

“They broke no law,” Jon says. “Their execution would be unlawful. Tyrannical.”

“Rape is outlawed in the seven kingdoms,” Dany says. “The penalty is death. You agreed the law was fitting. Have you changed your mind?”

“It’s still a fitting law,” Jon says. “But what these people did—Lord and Lady--?”

“Fowler, your grace,” Tyrion supplies.

“Fowler. It wasn’t rape. They paid for a whore. They had one.”

Daenerys is aware there is no moderate reply she is capable of making to this, so she says nothing. Sansa flinches visibly, however. “You weren’t a whore,” she says.

“I was,” says Jon.

“But you weren't willing,” Sansa says.

“I pretended to be.”

“And they treated you well, then?” Sansa says sharply.

“Does that matter? They didn’t break any of his rules. They paid good coin. They did what they were entitled to do, no more. No less.”

“Why didn’t you tell them the truth of it?” Sansa says. “Why didn’t you ever ask one of them for help?”

Darkness flashes across Jon’s eyes, like dragon glass under the moon. He hesitates and looks to Dany. She knows the answer. Doing so would have jeopardized Sansa. Daenerys waits to see if he will tell his sister as much. The way he decides to answer will give her insight into just how overcome Jon is right now. She knows that in his right mind, he would never want to burden his little sister with the knowledge. It would sound like an accusation, one that the Jon she knows would never level at Sansa.

Daenerys waits. Jon looks at her. Eventually he gives a small shake of his head. Chooses not to answer. At least, she thinks, he is still capable of this much.

“You know why, Sansa. He was trying to protect his family,” says Arya.

“It doesn’t matter. The Fowlers will not be executed,” Jon says.

“And what shall be done with them, then?” Daenerys says.

“Send them home,” Jon says. “Tell them never to return to Queen’s Landing.”

“They will have quite a story to tell about their king,” Daenerys says carefully.

“Let them,” Jon says. “Let Westeros know their king is a whore. Is that what upsets you? Is that why you want them dead? You’re afraid of what people might think, if they knew?”

This is unfair, she feels. “I wanted them dead because they hurt you,” Dany says. “It matters little to me what people think. In fact, I should be happy for the people to know what their king survived. There is nothing but honor in it. But as this is your concern, I will defer to your wishes.”

Jon’s eyes on Dany are cold. It’s unsettling—she is accustomed to him regarding her with kindness, deference. The fact that he is still struggling is clear to everyone in the room. Ser Brienne’s face shows naked concern. Arya and Sansa both send worried glances in Dany’s direction. She waits to see if Jon will say more, but he holds his tongue. Though it looks like there is more to say, swirling beneath his just-barely controlled exterior.

“Torgo Nudho, you heard the King,” Daenerys says.

“Yes, your grace.”

“Give them an escort and the compliments of their king,” Jon says.

“I find your temperance honorable, your grace,” Ser Brienne says.

“The Fowlers taught me a great deal of temperance. Thank them for that as well,” Jon replies darkly.

The silence in the room is suffocating. Grey Worm glances at Dany and she nods. He goes to do as Jon has ordered.

Daenerys takes a deep breath. Some sort of order must be re-established. “What other matters require the council’s attention?” she asks Tyrion.

Her Hand always looks beleaguered, but never more so as he turns his eyes to Jon and says, “My deepest apologies, Your Grace, but I must ask if there are others?”

Sansa’s head jerks up toward Jon and even Arya shifts uncomfortably.

“Of course there were others,” Jon says, his voice thin and cold. “What of it?”

“If there are others here at court who could provoke such a reaction in you, we should send them away now, in order to avoid any further uncomfortable confrontations.”

Jon is flooded. It’s more than he can handle, and Dany sees it. He looks to her.

“His Grace and I will discuss this privately and return to you,” Dany says. “The meeting is adjourned. The king and I request privacy for the remainder of the day.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument. She stands. To her immense relief, Jon stands with her. He follows her out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yara Greyjoy was Asha in Red Sea, and Asha in the early chapters of this work as well, but I've changed it to Yara in order to indicate a liberty I've taken here. For the purpose of Ocean I've imagined that Yara never saw Jon as a captive of Euron's. Theon did, as in Red Sea, and as in the show, Theon has died in the battle at Winterfell.


	16. So Cold and So Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE THANK YOU to Salon_Kitty, who continues to beta for me and patiently read like 6 different variations of this chapter. I feel I want to give another massive thank you to half_life for writing the work that inspired this one. Red Sea is an incredible story.
> 
> I want to give you all a heads up that I'm not certain, but I'm expecting only 2-3 more chapters after this one, to make this work complete.
> 
> CW: mentions of non-consensual brothel encounters, including orgasm denial and light cock torment. Slightly more graphic descriptions of m/m/m and m/m/f encounters in the brothel.

Jon moves through the halls of the keep like he’s going into battle. That’s what he wants to do, what his body is screaming out for. Where is Tormund when he needs him? How many times can Jon call upon the man to spar with him until it begins to look as if the king cannot control his bloodlust? But isn’t that the truth of it, anyway? The king can’t. Here he is next to his wife and he has to curl his hands into fists, dig his nails into his own skin, to keep himself from roaring at her. She doesn’t deserve that. None of this is her fault. Perhaps he ought to let her burn the Fowlers, as she wishes, he thinks. Maybe he is the one who is wrong here. Would seeing their skin blacken and their mouths curl into permanent rictuses of pain help him? Would it slake something inside of him, this madness, this hunger? Perhaps. 

He wishes Dany would do something, like she had last night. Give him an order to follow, bridle his anger for him. And yet he fears that if she did, if she tried right now, he wouldn’t be able to obey. Inside he is erupting. He should have known that telling her the truth would unleash the darkness in him this way. He feels he will crush anyone who so much as speaks to him. 

It is lucky, then, that they encounter no one in the corridors. When they reach their chambers, Dany enters first. He stalks past her, goes to the window and gazes out upon the snows. They’ve returned, fat flakes blowing furiously past the window, the whole world white. Jon tries to breathe, but his chest is thumping. He cannot do this. If he cannot control his rage, he is not fit to be a king. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, staring out into the white. “I might hurt you.”

“You’re angry with me,” Dany says from behind him.

“Yes,” he says immediately. Realizes what he has just implied. “No. I don’t mean I‘m going to hurt you because I’m angry at you, Dany, gods. I’m afraid I’ll lose control. I don’t—why did you gather the council without me?”

“A mistake. I was eager to handle the situation.”

“You should have involved me,” he says, turning from the window, beginning to pace. Pacing makes one look like a mad man, he knows, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He remembers how Theon used to pace, how Jon would force himself to hold still, waiting for Euron to come and violate them both. Why can’t he summon that self-control now? 

“I see that now,” Dany is saying. “I’m sorry. I only meant to take care of it for you, so that you wouldn’t need to worry about it any more. I had hoped to have it done with by the time you woke.”

Aye, this was her way. To take swift action. He knew that, admired it as well. So was it Sansa’s way, and Arya’s way, it seemed, this ruthlessness. If he had wanted to handle the situation, he should have done so immediately. But he hadn’t been able to. “Did you have them tortured?” he asks. “Beaten?”

“I don’t see why it matters, but no.”

Does he wish she had? A little, he must admit, if he is being honest with himself. “Having done so would only have made more victims for Greyjoy, for Bolton, do you not see that?” One of them had to stop this. If he let her go after Greyjoy the way she wished, there would be no stopping Daenerys. She would carve a path of fire around the circumference of the world to find the monster, Jon knew this. And he also knew the darkness that lurked inside himself. Knew that that darkness, once loosed, made him capable of slaughtering anyone who stood in his way. Look at what he had done to Ramsay. There would come a time, Jon feared, when he couldn’t be stopped.

“If you burned them--the Fowlers, and every other man and woman who used me in the brothel-- If you lose control, and I lose control, Daenerys, we could end the seven kingdoms between us. Do you see that?”

“Jon,” she says. “Please look at me.”

He halts his pacing and gives her his eyes.

“There’s nothing you and I can’t do together. We can vanquish every enemy. We can fix anything. And we will.”

“You can’t trust me, Daenerys,” he says. “I can’t trust myself. I’m dangerous.” 

“Good. A king should be dangerous.”

“I’m dangerous to you,” Jon says, his voice rising. “I’m dangerous to Sansa, and Arya. To the people I love. Do you know they once sent me a strip of Sansa’s thigh? Something happened at the brothel, and I disobeyed. I fought. And a few days later, it arrived in a box. A chunk of pale skin. I’ve never asked her if it was truly hers, but just now, I wanted to. I almost did.”

“Well why didn’t you?” Daenerys asks, her face earnest, her eyes shining. “Why not ask her? Sansa is strong. She can handle the truth.”

“Are you not hearing me, Dany? They cut off a piece of my little sister’s skin because I disobeyed them. When I could have chosen to obey. I let my anger get the better of me, and for that they mauled Sansa.”

“I’m sure you did what you had to do. They never asked your sister to serve in a brothel, did they? What you went through was worse. It’s honorable that you want to protect them, but shouldn’t you recognize the extent of your own sacrifice? The things you’ve done for them?”

His eyes sweep the table and he realizes he’s looking for something to pick up, something to throw. He needs to calm down. At the wall, he had seen men strike futilely at the timber, in their anger. Hit walls, hit trees. Someone had put his hand through a window, once, shattering the expensive glass, shredding his hand. Jon won’t be like those men, but gods help him, he is close. He is too close. He looks at Dany, afraid he has frightened her. But she looks as formidable as ever, and so Jon allows himself to press on.

“All they were asking me to submit to was something I’d already submitted to, countless times before. Two men. It’s not as if it’s hard, for a man to let two men have him at once. I had done it before, and I should have been able to do it again. It was my job. But something inside of me turned and I fought. I killed one of the men_ . _”

Finally, something gets to her, lands like an arrow. Dany’s face goes white, her mouth drops open in soundless horror. He hates that he’s pushed her this far, but he needs her to see.

“None of that is your fault,” Dany says.

“I killed him _ knowing _ it might mean that they could kill Sansa,” the words tear from him, ragged. Gods, but it was true. What right had he now, to claim to be anybody’s ruler, anybody’s king?

“Jon, look at me. You have to calm down.”

He needed her help. It probably wasn’t fair to ask that of her, he thought, but he couldn’t do it on his own. “Dany,” he says. “I need you to suppress me. Or I’ll slaughter everyone. I’ll kill them all. That’s why you can’t bring Greyjoy here, do you see?”

“Go to your knees,” Dany says.

_ Thank the gods. _Jon obeys her. Sinks to his knees, stares down at the floor. He needs her orders, craves them. Needs something to hold onto in the dark swirling storm of his reality. _ Give me more, _ some part of him cries. _ Punish me. Contain me. _

He waits in the silence, hoping for a command, now that they are here alone together. A log cracks in the fire, the stones are cold beneath his knees and he welcomes the discomfort. It’s what he deserves. After a long moment, Dany speaks, her voice far away with thought. “When you saw those people, you fell to your knees. Why?”

Jon shakes his head. He’s said too much already.“You don’t want to hear about that.” She is too pure. He won’t blemish her with his stories.

“We decided not to keep things from one another,” she presses.

Anger curls up his insides like a plume of rising smoke. He isn’t angry at Dany. It’s everything else. But he’s here alone with her, rage boiling in his body, needing some kind of release. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.

“You’re not going to.” Daenerys sounds certain of this. Jon looks up at her face, to scan it for truth, he supposes. _ I will take back what is mine,_ she had said when he first met her, before the wars, and she had. She does what she says she will do. Nothing stops her. 

“It was what they trained me to do. They liked me to obey.” His body had responded before his mind had caught up. In an instant, Jon had been back in a perfumed room, draped in silks. They had taught him a series of commands. Movements they wanted him to go through, positions. Like being a boy learning the sword, almost, but for a very different purpose.

“So they made you kneel.”

“That was the easiest of all the things they made me do,” he says, anger surging at the memory. “But yes.” Jon is flooded with an image, there’s never even a chance of stopping it. He is kneeling. And then he is pushed to all fours, and there is a man behind him, forcing into him, and a woman in front of him. And she has the ring they put in his mouth, on rare occasion, the most dreaded of all punishments. Jon had taken it once, to spare a girl that fate--had volunteered himself in her place--but it had been a mistake. They had seen the way it penetrated his armor, left him defenseless. Not Lord and Lady Darkbloom--that’s how he had known the Fowlers, by that ridiculous name--no, this time it was someone else. The memory hits him like a fist, he exhales, doubles forward.

“Jon,” Dany says sharply. He forces himself to look at her.

“There are things I thought I had forgotten,” he says, his voice a ragged whisper. More memories rush in, he can’t stop them. A rope around his wrists, digging into him, holding him up by a series of steel loops in the ceiling. The smell of sex and his own sweat. A man who made Jon lie on his back with his legs up while he thumbed at his opening, and then reached into a bag for . . .

Jon hears himself whimper. A little sound of protest. _ And then Dany_. “And then you, in my dreams,” he says. “Always you. Stepping out of the flames.”

Dany drops to her knees in front of him, meets him on the floor. “If I had known, I would have burned the entire city down to save you,” she says fiercely.

“I know,” Jon says. Another image, another memory—something he has to allow inside of him, and it’s too large, it makes him bleed, but if he doesn’t submit they’ll put the device on one of the girls, any of them-- It’s too much, and Jon slips away. Everything flashes black.

He is in the woods. Running on all fours through the snow, and he is safe here. There is only frost, forest, the scent of the blood of a deer. Someone is calling his name, but he ignores it, keeps running. A rabbit in the brush ahead—

Someone calls his name again, and he growls. For a moment, two worlds flash before his eyes, like blinking in and out the sun. The woods. Their chamber, with a fire roaring, Daenerys before him. A bank of snow, the knowledge in his bones that there is a copse of trees up ahead, and beneath them, a wounded deer—

“Jon!” Fingers are pushing into his cheeks, shaking him, and he is back in the room with Dany, blinking. “Don’t do that,” she says, holding him by his jaw, clenching him as if she can keep him here. “Please.”

Jon hears himself growl again and then he forces himself to speak. Speaking keeps the human in him. “I can’t be here with you right now,” he says. “You don’t want to see me like this.”

“I do,” she says, relaxing her grip, placing her cool palm on his cheek. “I want you here, with me. Please don’t go away.”

Is she prepared for the reality of being in the room with a man who is half wolf, half whore? She doesn’t know what she’s asking. He shakes his head. The room begins to recede, like falling down a dark tunnel. He wants to slip away again.

“Don’t,” she says. His queen. “You will stay here with me. That is my command.”

So be it, he thinks. _ Let her see _.

Jon surges forward and presses his lips to Dany’s, catching the back of her head with one hand as he does, to balance the force with which he leverages into her. He claims her lips. Crushes her to him, so hard it nearly hurts. Dany puts a hand on his chest and firmly pushes him away.

Her eyes search his. She looks wary. “Jon?” she says. “Is it you?”

“It’s me,” he says. “Your whore.”

For a moment she only looks at him, breathing. Her eyes are wide, he sees confusion there. And doubt.

“I want you to know who I really am,” he says. If she is going to insist on keeping a whore for her husband, a whore for the king, then he will let her see it. Let her judge for herself, once she knows, and see if she can find it within her to call him worthy then.

“I see you,” she says. Tears slip from her eyes, he has made her cry. “I already know you as you are. You’re the best man I’ve ever met. There’s more goodness in you than in anyone I’ve ever known.”

“You can’t say that until you see me,” Jon growls.

She takes a deep breath, draws herself up. Wipes tears off of her face, and composes herself, as Jon burns with shame. “All right,” she says. “This is what you need?”

“If you are going to keep me as your king, and your husband, yes,” he says.

“Fine,” she says, a cold certainty in her voice. “Show me.”

“Don’t let me hurt you,” he says. “You must be prepared to call Grey Worm and Ser Willem. Make sure it’s both of them.” It will take two men to subdue him, Jon knows, if he snaps. If Dany is not enough.

“It won’t be necessary,” Dany says. “You’re going to obey me.”

“I can try.” Jon looks straight into her eyes as he says it, needing her to understand.

She nods at him solemnly.

He puts his hands to his tunic and begins to peel it off for her. “You should be standing,” he says. “Or sitting.” Anywhere but down here with him.

Dany keeps her eyes on him as she rises to a stand and then sits in the chair. “Go on,” she says. “Stand. Let me see you.”

Jon pushes fluidly to his feet. He moves like a whore. His body remembers, it’s all still inside of him. The lessons Littlefinger drilled and forced and fucked into his body. A bit looser in the hips, a little sway. He sweeps the tunic over his face and drapes it over the back of a chair. Looks at Dany with his chin tucked down, and then turns. Shows her his back, where he knows his skin is gnarled like stripped pink tree roots, shining in the dew. There is a section on the center of his back where he no longer has skin at all, just this slick scar tissue. He wants her to see.

He hooks his fingers into his breeches and begins to slide them down off his arse, just the backside, revealing himself there slowly. “There was a woman who liked to ride herself to climax on the back of my thigh so that she could claw at my scars as she did it. She found them arousing,” he says as he performs this action for her. He remembers her hand in his hair, driving his face down into the pillows. Wine on both their breaths. He’d had to keep himself slow with wine to keep from fighting. It wasn’t an issue. All the whores had.

“Did she?” Daenerys says, her voice even. “Turn around.”

Jon turns. In the brothel he would have adjusted his expression, hidden his anger. But he wants Dany to see it, wants her to know. 

She isn’t intimidated by it. “Go on, then,” she says.

He puts his hands to the front of his breeches and locks his eyes on Dany’s as he slowly pushes them down. This part can be done in a demure way, with feigned bashfulness. It can be done forcefully, displaying hunger. It can be done to show desire, or to create desire in another. Littlefinger taught him how to read each client and judge their preferences. He hated how good he became at it.

Because he’s too angry to stop himself, he looks at her with defiance as his breeches fall to the floor, his small clothes with them. Dany raises an eyebrow at him and sends her gaze down to his cock. Her face ripples with confusion. Jon knows why. He has sprung from his breeches fully erect. Why, she must wonder, is he able to do this now, when he couldn’t before?

“I had to be able to,” he says bitterly. “Do you see?” _ Do you see how fucked up I am? _ He wants to say. She hadn’t wanted him to use what he learned in the brothel with her, so he hadn’t. But when he didn’t call upon his training, he didn’t harden for her, not right away. When his body did stir, he never knew if it was real, or if it was due to the education Littlefinger had given him. He was not able to trust his own body.

“I see,” Daenerys says.

“What shall I do for you, your grace?” he says bitterly.

“Take yourself in your hand,” Dany replies.

Jon blinks at the immediacy of her answer. He had expected her to be uncertain. Frightened, even. But he’s glad she isn’t. If she’s going to be frightened, he’s going to have to stop this himself, and he doesn’t think he can. He reaches down, wraps his hand around his cock. 

“Like this, my queen?”

“Yes,” Dany says. “Stroke yourself.”

“Gods,” he says, his cock surging in his hand with what he thinks is actual desire for her. He moves his hand slowly up and down his member, keeping his eyes on Daenerys. It feels good, in a way he wasn’t expecting to be able to feel good here. It’s confusing, and in that confusion he pauses. Stills his hand, hesitating.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Dany says.

“Yes Dany,” he murmurs. Begins to stroke himself again, here before her in their private chambers, the fire warming his skin. A movement that is practiced and spontaneous at once--something he has been made to do hundreds of times before, but that is somehow freshly arousing here. It becomes difficult to focus. His eyes shut, head tipping back with yearning. It feels incredibly good, and he thinks he might actually enjoy doing it here, for Dany. To do it both for her, and under her, with her to govern him. His brow furrows with the pleasure and the shame of it.

“Does it feel good?” she asks.

Jon swallows. “Yes,” he breathes, his eyes shut. 

“Good. Stop,” she says.

Jon stops at once, his eyes opening.

“Is that what they did to you? Is that how they taught you temperance?”

He nods, unsurprised that she has managed to intuit this. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. They would start with a cage on his member, one that forbade his release. But after awhile the cage would be removed, and then they’d do everything they could to get him to climax, and punish him when he did. Let him rest. Start it all over. Lady Darkbloom holding him in between punishments, soothing him, while Jon burned with the shame and fought to suppress a hatred that would have had his jaws locking on her throat.

“Go on then. Show me what it is you wanted me to see.”

He goes to her, moving the way he knows, from his time as Littlefinger’s student, that he is capable of moving. _ Something feline about it _ , Ramsay had said. _ Predatory. _

_ Not feline _ , Littlefinger had said. _ Lupine. Our bastard is a wolf _.

He goes to his knees on the floor before her. “There’s nothing you can’t ask of me now,” he says. “Do you understand, Daenerys? I’ll do absolutely anything you wish. You can strike me. You can beat me, if you want. Make me wear . . . .” he burns with the memory of it. “Anything. You can violate me, however you want.”

“I don’t want to do any of those things,” she says. Her eyes are sad.

“I need you to know that you can,” he says. 

“All right,” she says. “I know.”

Using the strength of his arms on the floor, Jon lowers himself down. They always liked to see his muscles ripple. “_ The strength of your back as you resist is particularly appealing to many of our clients,” _ Littlefinger had drawled. “ _ Just make sure you don’t win.” _

“Most of the men who asked for me liked me because I fought. Because I defied them.” Never too hard, though. There had been Sansa to think of. Had he actually been fighting for his freedom, then, or fighting for their pleasure? Another question he’d never fully answer. There had been women, on occasion, who had wanted Jon to hurt them. But not most. Jon had had no particular talent for it, he suspected female clients craving such things had gone to someone else. 

“I see,” Daenerys says evenly.

Jon slides his head beneath her gown and moves back up the length of her leg, in the dark warmth of the tent created by the fabric. Her scent is potent in here, and he pushes up to his knees and puts his face to the inside of her thigh, breathing her in. It comforts him. He has done this before, many times, with many women, but he’s never found it comforting. He had thought doing this might send him out of his body again. Bring him into the wolf. But it doesn’t. He rests his cheek on her thigh and closes his eyes, breathing her in. 

He would like to linger there, to rest, but he doesn’t allow himself to. After a few deep breaths, his fingers find the band of her small clothes. He tugs them down. Daenerys rises off the seat to let him. When she is bare, he pushes his face to her cunt. Presses his nose into her skin, inhales.

“Do you like this?” he murmurs into her sex.

Dany slides the length of her gown up. Jon misses the warmth of being tucked inside of her as his back is exposed to the air. She ruches it up around the creases of her thighs, freeing his head. 

“Do you like kissing me there?” she asks.

“Aye,” Jon breathes, his face still pressed to her thigh.

“Is that what you did for women in the brothel?”

“Aye,” he says again, and admitting this to her is like an absolution. A dive in cold water, a purifying pain. He wants to kneel here at her feet and confess everything to her, and see if somehow she can make him clean.

“Did you like kissing them there?”

“No,” Jon says. “But my body would sometimes respond. Usually, it would.”

Dany nods and puts her hand to the side of his face that isn’t resting on her leg.”What else?”

Jon shuts his eyes. Things he thought he had forgotten. The shame of those memories threatening to take him under. “There are so many different tastes,” he said. “So many things people want. I never would have imagined.” His mouth being forced open. The sweep of a pale skirt as it is forced over him. “Sometimes there was a cage.”

A pause. Jon thinks he has gone too far. When Dany speaks again, however, her voice is quite measured. “Like in the kennels.”

“No,” he shakes his head. Although he had heard of such things, of course. “One that would go on me.” He can remember the feel of it, not much else. Doesn’t know who used it. But he can still feel the spikes on the inside of it squeezing into his member when he needed to be punished.

“Was it painful?” Daenerys asks.

“Yes. Come to bed.” Jon stands and holds his hand out and Dany takes it. They move toward the bed together. When they reach it, Jon turns Dany so that she’s facing it and presses on her back, pushing her down. She allows him to direct her this way, settles onto the bed on her belly. Jon straddles her and begins to pull at the laces at the back of her gown, tugging them roughly. He hears her make a startled gasp; it always startles them to see this raw need come out of him. He pulls at the sleeves until the top draws down. Gathers the heavy fabrics around her waist and tugs them off of her forcefully. 

She starts to turn to her back and he pushes her down. He takes one of her wrists and holds it above her head, and then lays down atop of her, pressing his cock between the cheeks of her arse, riding her there. She pushes herself up into him, meeting his thrust. He grips her hair and pulls her toward him, and puts his mouth very close to her ear. Makes a sound from his throat that is half groan, half growl.

“Tell me about them. Tell me what they did to you,” Dany says.

“The Darkblooms had very specific requests,” he says into the back of her neck. He loosens his grip on her hair, moves his hand around, to where her throat rests against the pillow.

“Go on.”

“Sometimes they would squeeze me here,” he says.

Her head jerks up, turning toward him. “They would choke you?”

Jon nods, looking at her. She turns, and he lets her. Slides off of her as she settles onto her back.

“But they could have harmed you,” she says.

Could they have? Littlefinger wouldn’t have taken it lightly had anyone truly harmed his best asset. “They weren’t allowed to make me pass out. They never broke that rule.”

Jon bends his head and puts his lips on her right breast, sucking, drawing her nipple into his mouth. He’s heard the stories, of how Daenerys suckled her dragons like children at her breasts. He’s never asked if it was true. Let him become a dragon, he thinks. Let him nourish himself the same way.

“Were there other rules?” Dany asks.

“Yes,” Jon answers, her breast still in his mouth.

“What were they?”

He kisses her breast, and then pulls off to answer her. “Littlefinger didn’t allow shit, vomit, or blood. He allowed everything else.” 

She doesn’t answer, and he thinks he’s gone too far. But when he looks at her face, it is fully composed. Jon can still feel rage in his blood and he knows he needs to push this moment to its end, needs her to know what truly dwells inside of him. He threads his fingers through her hair, tugging too hard, and reaches a hand down between her legs. Grips her there possessively. He rubs her sex and she makes a sound of pleasure, pushes into him. He wants to fall over the edge and see if Dany can bring him back. This isn’t enough.

“It has to be the other way,” he says. “You have to get on top of me. Do things to me.”

Jon rolls smoothly to his back and Dany does exactly as he has asked, straddling him at his belly. She peers down at him. “Put your arms above your head and don’t move them,” she says. Jon’s heart is beating fast and he can still feel anger coiling in his belly, but he obeys, gripping the posts of the headboard. “Don’t move them no matter what I do,” Dany says.

She slides her palms up his chest to his nipples and grips them hard, squeezing. Jon lets out a startled gasp, bares his teeth. “You like the pain there, don’t you, though?” Daenerys says. She turns and looks pointedly at his cock. “Are you at your full girth?” she says, and squeezes his nipple again._ Hard. _ Jon sucks air in through his teeth, and it feels good, this pain, and cleansing, and his cock surges. He grips the bed frame harder. “Hmmm,” Dany says, looking back at him. “Now?” she pinches his other nipple with the same intense pressure and Jon hisses again, and feels his cock lengthen painfully. He isn't surprised. He had known she could take to this.

“No more,” he says. That must be his fullness.

“I decide that,” Dany says, and then she wraps one hand behind her to grasp his cock and lowers her face to his nipple. Bites him there. This time Jon takes it silently, bites his own lip to hold back a cry. Clenches the headboard with all his strength, so hard that his hips rise up off the bed, lifting her. Dany only strokes his cock languidly. It is hot and swollen and doesn’t surge any further, because it can’t.

“All right,” she says. “There’s your fullness, then.” She pulls up, releasing his cock, and studies his face. “Have I done enough? Too much?”

“You can do anything,” Jon growls, his muscles straining. There is nothing she can think to do that hasn’t been done to him before. He knows this.

Dany slides her hand up his chest to his throat, her fingers curling in around his neck. His body tenses.

“Anything?”

“Anything,” he says.

“Show me your wolf,” she says, and applies pressure to his throat with the tips of his fingers. He smiles, a dark sort of smile. Menacing.

“That’s not enough,” he says. “What they did was so much worse, and I didn’t go into him then. I couldn’t.”

“I have given you a command,” Dany says, her voice cold and distant. That of a queen, not a lover. She squeezes his throat, and with her other hand she reaches back around to his cock, takes the tip in her fingers, and applies pressure.

It hurts, but Jon is used to being hurt. He looks at her, saying nothing, his face showing no sign that he can feel anything. She squeezes his cock harder.

Jon grips the bedframe but lifts his head up, drawing closer to her. “Harder,” he growls.

She answers his challenge and pinches him, hard enough that Jon hisses again, his head falling back to the pillow. Then he bucks his hips, jerking her. “Do you want me in pain?” he says, feeling like he is hovering just outside of himself. “You’ll have to do better than this.”

She doesn’t answer this. She releases his cock and shimmies up his body. Jon knows what is coming. She puts her hands in his hair and tugs his head back, exposing his throat. Lowers herself onto his face, giving him her weight, and begins to grind.

It’s all right, he thinks. But in a moment he can’t breathe, and he wasn’t prepared for it, and he can’t move his hands to her hips to guide her, control her, push her off. His blood pounds in his ears--

\--and then he draws a great gasp of cold air, and his nose digs down into the snow and kicks it up, into the air, and he is running on all fours through the woods.

A rabbit startles from the brush and he snatches it up with his teeth. Bones crack in his jaw, the soft neck snaps. A limp dead thing, hanging from his maw. He tears into it, pulling flesh from tendon and bone. Pulls the head from the body, exposes soft inner organs. Eats. It’s not enough. He wants more. 

Time shimmers into a different state and for an undefinable amount of it, he is free among the trees in the cold, killing indiscriminately, leaving bodies and blood in his wake. There is nothing but instinct and open air and these four legs that can carry him faster than any man, as fast as he wants to go, and he wants to run, he wants to keep running. 

And then with a great gulp of air he is slammed into the ground. Not onto earth, but onto hard, cold rock. He is on all fours, naked, on the floor, sucking in air. Tears rush into his eyes and spill onto the stones and he gasps, choking them back. The warmth of fire heats his back. Shuddering, he pushes himself back to his knees, a penitent position. He pants as his eyes move up, the room around him gradually coming into focus, everything taking shape slowly.

Daenerys is sitting in a chair a few feet ahead of him. She’s naked, one leg crossed over the other, her hands on the arm rests. Like an oracle. She looks at him placidly, her eye observant, unemotional. Unafraid.

“What did I do?” Jon rasps. Speaking is difficult.

“Your eyes went black,” she says.

His body wants to collapse into itself, but he forces himself to stay up on his knees, to face her. Isn’t that what he had wanted? “And?”

“You growled and snapped your jaw. You moved your face toward me but you kept your hands where I told you to. Gripping the bed. Because you were still doing as I asked, I told you you could release them. You grabbed me and flipped me so that I was beneath you again, and crouched over me, on all fours. Like you had before, all those moons ago. And then you put your teeth to my breast and bit--”

“Dany,” Jon groans. He can still taste blood in his mouth. Gods, is it hers? He wipes at his lips, searching her body for blood. Doesn’t see any. His hand comes away clean.

“It didn’t hurt very much. I wanted to see what would happen. You put your face between my legs then. You spent some time there,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “You were rather ferocious. And then I pulled you off of me and told you to kneel.”

“And I did?”

“You growled at me,” she says. “But you obeyed.”

“How long?”

“Not very. You’ve been kneeling there perhaps ten minutes. No longer.”

He thinks he should be upset with himself, but a lightness is coming over him instead. “I went into my dire wolf and I didn’t hurt you,” he says.

“You did not hurt me,” she repeats. “You did as I commanded.”

“What brought me back?” he asks.

Dany shakes her head. “I don’t know. I thought as long as I had you contained, I’d let you stay as you were. It’s rather like you just woke up.”

His chest thunders like he’s going to laugh or sob. He tries not to let his body quake too violently, but he can’t seem to stop shaking. He had gone into his dire wolf and _ she had held him. _ He wants to lay himself at her feet. Worship her. “Did I bring you to orgasm?” he asks.

Dany’s expression is impenetrable, like when she is holding audience, issuing commands. “Not yet,” she says. She raises her eyebrow at him. An invitation. Jon feels his cock tighten.

“May I stand, your grace?”

“You may.”

Moving fluidly the way he moves into battle, Jon rises and takes Dany up with a sweep, as if she were his sword. Tosses her onto the bed. She lands on her back, and Jon’s cups her hip and pushes, turning her over. She settles on her stomach with a sharp exhale. Jon moves efficiently. He takes a pillow, slides his other arm under her hips and pulls her up, placing the pillow under her. Then he lowers to his belly, puts his face tight and close between her legs, and tongues her cunt eagerly, almost sloppy. Dany gasps at the sudden thrill of it, squirming her hips in arousal or anticipation. Jon reaches a hand up to the curve of her cheek and digs his fingers in sharply. 

“Oh!” she cries, surprised, but Jon isn’t done. He seeks out her clit with his tongue, uses his fingers to peel back the hood and licks the small bud directly. Dany lets out a desperate whine. “That’s too much, I think,” she gasps.

“Yes, your grace,” Jon murmurs into her sex. He releases the shell of her and slides his tongue upward, along her cleft. When he reaches the split of her buttocks he keeps going. Using a hand on either side, Jon pulls Dany open until he can see the dark violet hollow between her cheeks, and slides his tongue over it, covering her hole with slick from his own mouth. 

“Gods--Jon!” Dany cries, pulling away from him. He lets her go. “What are you doing?”

“Did you not like it?” he says. “Most people do. Once they settle into it.”

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“You don’t have to,” Jon answers. “I do.” He grabs her by the hips and hoists her up, onto her knees. She starts to push up on her arms, but Jon presses his palm between her shoulders. “Keep this part down. There.”

“What are you going to do?” Dany asks.

Jon moistens his thumb in his mouth and then touches it to her rear opening. “I’m going to kiss you here,” he says, massaging her in circles, just the outside.

Dany gives a startled jerk, gasping. Jon doesn’t stop, however. It’s from surprise, he’d wager, and not discomfort. “Has anyone ever touched you here before--in a loving way?” he asks, because he has no idea about the details of her rapes, or what they entailed.

“No,” she breathes.

He applies pressure with his thumb, not entering her yet. Waking her up there, Littlefinger would call it. Her body startles again.

“Do you want me to stop?” he says.

“No,” she says into the furs. “Tell me more of what you’re going to do.”

Jon smiles. “I’m going to put my mouth on your hollow, my queen,” he says, pushing his thumb into her so she understands his meaning. He’s heard other words for this place, of course. None of which he is willing to use with Daenerys. “I’m going to kiss you there until you’re close to coming,” he says, pressing his thumb ever so slightly into her opening. 

“_ Fuck _,” Dany gasps. Jon’s eyebrows shoot up. It thrills him to have elicited such a reaction from her--from his queen. In over a year he has never once heard her use this word. She raises her hips, pushing up into him. 

Jon takes this as permission enough. He lowers his face, hands on her cheeks, pulling her open, splitting her like a lemon. He puts his tongue on her hole and uses the flat of it to do what he knows to do here. He remembers how shocked he was when he was told of the act, unable to believe that he was being asked to do such a thing. And then, of course, before he had much time to think on it, he was doing it, because it was demanded of him, because the spectre of his sister’s death hung perpetually over his head like an axe waiting to fall. It had been difficult at first. And then it became just another act, one of many.

Jon laps at her, a boldness overtaking him. He wants her to understand the depth of the things he was forced to do, and he doesn’t think he could ever convince her to put a spiked cage on his cock. This is as close as he can imagine getting, with her. Her body is quite responsive to his touch, she shudders as he moves his tongue around her rim, circling. He teases her this way for a while, listening to her cries grow more passionate, rocking with her as she reflexively jerks her hips.

Then he enters her. Makes his tongue firm and breaches her there, in this dusky opening.

“Jon!” Daenerys cries out again.

Because he is certain that if she wanted him to stop, she would tell him so, Jon answers this cry of shock by grasping her hips and pulling her closer to him, sending him only deeper into her. Daenerys gasps and grips at the furs with her fists. He is hit with a sudden wave of emotion, and it overwhelms him. His eyes prick as if he might cry. Her body clenches around his tongue, and then releases.

“It feels good,” she murmurs.

It feels good for him too. To be able to expose himself so fully here with his wife is a release that is not wholly dissimilar to orgasm. He grows more passionate in his movements, drawing her toward him,holding her close as he works at her opening. His face pressed into her fully, merging with her, her scent filling him with desire, his cock and stones hot and tight, pulsing

“Does it--you don’t mind it?” she says. “The--sensation?”

To have scandalized Daenerys Stormborn seems like no small thing. Jon reaches an arm beneath her cunt and up along her belly, puts the other on her back, and flips her. He pushes her knees toward her chest, bending her legs back. Kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, lining his face up with the part of her he wants to put his mouth on.

“Watch me,” he says. “See how much I enjoy doing this for you.”

Her eyes are wide and glassy, dazed with sensation. Her face is flushed. Without any warning, she reaches for him. Her hands grip his hair and she pulls him toward her with a fair amount of force. Jon goes willingly. In the split second before his face drives into her he opens his mouth wide, like he is about to take a bite of a large, ripe piece of fruit, but with his tongue flattened. His wife is wet and warm and Jon lathes his tongue up the length of her lower cleft, as if he is trying to strip her skin from her bones. Presses the ridge of his nose into her, inhaling, and Dany shudders. As Jon begins to work his tongue against her hollow again, her opening gives a little spasm. She makes a noise that is desperate and needy, almost like she is going to cry.

Jon runs his tongue along her dark lacuna, lapping at her like waves. The sounds Dany is making grow more and more urgent. His face presses into her fully, merging with her, her scent filling him with need. She constricts around him. He feels her fingers whispering at his hair and glances up. She has put her hand to her sex and is touching herself there.

Keeping his tongue on her arse, Jon grunts and brushes her fingers aside. He puts his own thumb to her clit and moves it for her. Dany puts her hands in his hair and grips, pulling. Getting carried away. In a moment, it becomes hard for him to work with intention because Dany has a hold of him and is thrusting herself toward him while pulling him closer to her, riding him from this position. He slides his tongue into her tunnel only to have it pulled away, as Dany lets out another whine, beginning to jerk frantically. He considers swirling his mouth with wine, then bringing her over with his tongue on her cunt, but she is enjoying this so much he decides not to. Her waters are abundant, she is all over him, she is earth and ocean and flame. Jon presses his tongue back into her, working her bud quickly, and is rewarded with a whine issuing from Dany’s throat. It starts out long, the sound, but then it turns to short gasps, closer together, more frantic. She grabs at his hair again, and Jon keeps his tongue between her cheeks as best he can, rubbing her clit in quick, firm circles, until Dany cries out loudly and jerks her hips up toward him, her waters flowing, and lets out a long helpless cry in orgasm.

Jon supports her under her thighs as she comes, easing her legs down to dangle off the side of the bed when she is complete. As she pants, recovering, gazing at him with something like wonder on her face, Jon puts his palms on her thighs and leans forward between her legs, resting his chin on her lower belly, just above her mound. 

“That was . . . that was . . .I simply never knew . . .” 

Jon smiles, rubbing her thighs. “I’m glad to be the one to show you,” he says softly.

“What do you call that?” 

“I don’t know,” Jon says, and he starts to chuckle. “I once heard it called _ plowing the rose _. Is that what you’re most concerned with right now, your grace? A technical term?”

“I never would have imagined,” she says. “It truly wasn’t unpleasant for you?”

“It was a good deal more than pleasant,” Jon says, feeling the throbbing at his cock anew. He shifts slightly. “With you.”

A tender pause, as Dany takes in the meaning of what he’s just said. “Your beard is wet,” she says. Jon huffs a laugh as her eyes widen, runs a hand over his face, over his beard, which is indeed, he finds, damp with the liquor of her.

“Is that from me?” she says. Jon looks at her quizzically. 

“Did your other men not bring you off?” he says.

“They did,” Dany says. “Or usually, I brought myself off with them, more precisely. But I don’t think I got them quite so--soaking. Gods, did I--I didn’t--”

“Relieve yourself?” Jon says, laughing now, unable to help it. “No. It’s normal, for a woman. It’s how I know I’m doing well.” Some women produced more waters than others, of course, but if he wasn’t managing to elicit any, Jon knew he wasn’t doing a proper job.

She reaches a hand for him and he takes it, threading his fingers through hers, gently stroking her with his thumb.

“A woman brought me off once,” she says.

“Did she?” A flicker of surprise, but it’s faint. Jon has seen so much of this side of the world. He kisses the back of her hand.

“Yes. One of my Dothraki maids. I was very young, and very lonely. But she was quite skilled. Are you still--not that it matters, but--”

“I’m still hard, aye,” Jon says.

“Good,” Dany says. “I want to feel you inside of me.”

“All right,” Jon says. He breathes in deeply. The things he’s just done to her have left him achingly aroused, he’ll have to be careful. Dany shifts back in the bed until her head reaches the pillows again. Her face and chest are flushed with her peaking, her silver hair messed and slipping out of her braids. Jon slides up the length of her, his weight on his arms. He reaches between her legs and touches her there lightly, just with his fingertips. She is still damp, like fertile earth. “You’re not too sensitive here?” he asks.

“No,” she says, putting her hands on his chest, running her palms over him. “Let me feel you.” Her eyes flicker downward, and Jon is achingly hard for her. He lets her see it.

“You want me?” she whispers.

Jon nods. “Very much,” he says gruffly, brushing her hair back from her face. He bends and places a kiss on her forehead, feeling reverent, and then reaches down to his cock and positions it at her opening. He has done this before, of course, with Dany. Dozens and dozens of times. But never since telling her the truth of him. He wants to feel her presence, be with her now fully, and so he locks his eyes on hers as he slowly slides into her. It is easy, she is still plenty wet, and Jon pauses and draws in a ragged, open-mouthed breath at the sheer pleasure of it--the warmth of her, the softness, her body hugging around him, sheathing him, holding him safe.

“I’ve always wanted you, Jon.”

“I know,” Jon says, and grinds his hips into her. She traces her hands down his back and cups his arse, digging her fingers into him.

“All of you, every part,” she says. Jon pulls back his head so he can look into her face as he massages slow circles into her sex with his groin, more blood rushing to his cock with every thrust. 

“The part of you that was in a brothel,” she says. “The part of you that was captive, on a ship.” Jon’s eyes close and Dany grabs his face. He opens them, looks down at her. He is throbbing with arousal, almost unable to think straight. Tears rush to his eyes and he doesn’t try to stop them. “The part of you that endured the unimaginable to protect your family. The part of you that fought against impossible odds to take back your family home. The home of a family that wouldn’t even give you their name.”

He thrusts into her. Dany’s eyes flutter shut and she sighs. Then she opens her eyes, her hands running up his back, into his hair.

“The part of you that would have given anything--suffered anything--to stop the army of the dead. That fought at my side to take the throne. That married me to spare your sisters political marriages. Yes, I know,” she says as Jon’s eyes widen. He’s never told her his motives there. “I know what sort of man you are. Look at me.” His eyes had shifted away, but he obeys. Gazes back at her.

“I love you,” Dany says.

Tears fall down onto her breast. Jon nods.

“I know,” he says. Dany nods. 

“Good.”

“I love you too, Dany.” She lets out a little laugh. “I know,” she says, her eyes holding so much tenderness for him that Jon nearly goes boneless. She wraps her legs around his back, and draws him toward her. Jon begins to undulate into her, rhythmically, slowly at first. Doing his best to let her feel him, thrusting fully into her so that their bodies meet together and recede, meet and recede, waves on the shore. 

Dany runs her hand up to his nipple and thumbs at him there, drawing him to a peak. “Mmmm,” he says from the back of his throat, half moan, half growl. She does the same thing to his other one, and then leans up and licks him there, like a kitten at a bowl of milk. Jon thrusts into her again, and as Dany leans back down and sends her hands roaming down his back to his buttocks, her fingers sliding slightly between the cheeks, he knows he is close to spending and pauses, breathing hard.

“I can keep going, but I need a moment,” he says. “If you were to tie a cord around my member, at the base, it would help.”

Confusion crosses her face and then her lips part. “Oh,” she says. “No. I want you to come.”

“You do?”

Dany smiles “I do,” she replies.

Jon cups her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. He begins to move his hips and then they move of their own accord, increasing in strength and power until he is riding her savagely.

A ragged moan tears from Jon’s throat and he reaches a hand underneath her buttocks, drawing her to him as he thrusts. Her hands run over his back, cupping his arse. “Let me feel the force of you,” she says, and Jon lifts her hips, her back arching up off the bed, and slams his groin into her, and again, all the blood and every nerve in his body seeming to rush to his groin, a gathering storm. And then he hears a cry dragging from his throat, his chest, his body straining and finally letting go, a powerful release, his seed spilling into her.

Jon doesn’t mean to, but after a few slow, final thrusts, all the strength goes out of him at once and he collapses onto her, resting his head in the hollow of her shoulder. Dany runs her fingers through his hair, traces her nails down his back and he lies atop her, panting. He cups her breast, drawing it toward his face, and kisses it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “I’ve never seen anything like you. I didn’t think you were possible.” 

Dany makes a contented noise and he raises his hips, sliding carefully out of her. He settles on the bed beside her, and immediately Dany draws her knees up to her chest, hugging them to her. He realizes she is trying to hold his seed within her, trap it in hopes it will take root in her womb, and he is filled with a sudden surge of tenderness for her. “Do you want anything?” he asks.

“Some water,” Dany says.

Jon rises from the bed, draws a fur up over her body. Dany is still coating him, so he pauses first at the basin at her vanity, dunks a cloth into the water and rubs it over his face, his beard. Then he pours her a glass of water. “Here,” he offers, sitting next to her, placing another pillow beneath her head. It lifts her head just high enough for her to drink, and Jon holds the glass to her lips for her, so she can continue hugging her knees to her chest. She drains the glass. A bead of water spills down her chin, and he catches it with his thumb.

“Another?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Thank you. I’m so exhausted, Jon. I just want to lay here for awhile. Will you lay with me?”

There is nothing in this moment that could make him happier, as he is heavy with exhaustion himself. “I should like nothing more,” he says. He takes the glass back to the table and takes a quick sip of wine, swirling it in his mouth, before pouring his own glass of water, drinking deeply. Stops to throw a few more logs on the fire. Then he climbs back into bed beside her, pulling the furs around them both. He slides his arm up the backs of her thighs to the crook of her knees, catching her weight for her, allowing Dany to release her arms. He holds her legs to her chest. Dany sighs with relief. 

“How long do you plan to stay like this?” he asks. Until this last year, his focus has always been on preventing getting a woman with child, this ritual is new to him. 

“I don’t know,” she says. “Who knows if it will even do any good? But I must try.” He can hear the sleepiness in her voice. He considers telling her that it doesn’t matter to him, this pregnancy she wants so badly. But it isn’t about him, he knows. It’s about her dynasty, her heir. 

“Fall asleep,” he says. “I’ll hold you.”

“All right,” Dany mutters, her eyes closed. Within minutes, her lips part, her breathing evens. She is out. 

For awhile Jon lies awake beside her. He holds her legs up until they become very heavy, her body yearning to unfold. At last she makes a little moan of protest, pushing against him in her sleep, and he lets them down. Wraps his arm across her waist and pulls her toward him, pressing his forehead into her arm. Evening will be falling soon. There will be feasting and dancing and all manner of responsibilities to attend to. But for a little while, still, it is just the two of them, warm and naked and entwined in a bed, as winter roars its terrors just outside. 

  
  


*******

A knock on the door. Daenerys startles, her eyes flashing open.

“It’s all right,” Jon says immediately, speaking into her hair, his voice thick with sleep, his arm around her waist. She had been dreaming of Viserion again, spiraling out of the sky. Jon kisses her head, then stirs in the bed. “I’ll get it,” he says, putting on his robe.

Daenerys blinks, feeling heavy and disoriented. For a moment she wonders if it is morning, if they have slept for hours and hours. But no, she realizes. The light is weak, it is that strange blue hour between day and night. The knock must be Missandei, coming to help prepare her for the evening’s feast.

“Jon,” Dany says, her voice coming to her slowly. “Ask her to wait, just a moment, if she will.”

Jon looks over his shoulder at her and nods, then opens the door and speaks in soft tones. Closes it again.

“It was Missandei, to dress you for the feast,” Jon says. He is looking at her with concern. He comes back to the bed and sits before her, pressing his hand to her forehead, smoothing her hair back. “Are you all right, love?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Dany says, but as she speaks, tears prick her eyes. Gods. She has to stop this, she can’t have one form of hysterics or another everytime Jon makes love to her. And yet it is all just so much. So very much, and she can’t figure how to integrate it all into herself. Not now, not this time, when there is nothing to kill, no one to vanquish, nothing to conquer. “I need to ride my dragon,” she says, tears beginning to spill. She wishes she could hold them back, but there are too many.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, beginning to remove his hand. She catches it and presses it back to her face. “I’ve behaved like a mad man. I shouldn’t have defiled you with a word of what happened to me. Not a word of it.”

“Do you think me so fragile?” Dany says, and then thinks how ridiculous she must look, asking him this through tears. It makes her feel vulnerable. She had sent Daario away, rather than let him see her cry.

But Jon doesn’t think she is ridiculous. “No, of course not. It was just--telling you the truth seems to have stirred me up. It was better when I held everything in.” 

“Not for me.” she says. It’s true. It had been far worse when she had believed Jon to be repulsed by her, or when she had come to think she had been forcing sex upon him, like Drogo had forced it upon her. “It’s better now,” she says. “Now that I understand.” But it was also confusing, and disturbing. 

“Do you mean that, Dany?” Jon says.

“Yes,” she says. She draws his hand to her lips, kisses his palm.

“You don’t have to go to the feasting tonight, if you don’t want to,” Jon says. “I’ll go. Sansa and Arya will keep me plenty entertained, I’m sure.”

Daenerys smiles at this. “We must do something about Sansa,” she says. “She shouldn’t continue to speak to you the way she does, not at council.”

“I’ll handle Sansa,” Jon smiles. “Don’t worry.”

Dany leans forward into him, and Jon gathers her in his arms. She presses her face to his chest and lets herself be held for a long moment, Jon smoothing her hair down her back and holding her closely to him. Dany has never been one to rest in other people. The only person she has been able to take refuge in, all her life, is herself. But she knows that Jon is strong, and good, and so she lets him hold her.

When at last she draws a breath and sits up, Jon goes to her wardrobe, takes out her dressing gown. Brings it to her and holds it open for her to step into it. 

“Would you like whiskey, perhaps?” Jon asks. “Or tea?”

“Both,” Dany says. Jon goes back to their doors to let Missandei enter while he speaks to the guards outside.

“Good evening, your grace,” Missandei says. Her eyes find Dany sitting on the bed and she can see a small trace of worry cross her friend’s face. She must look as bad as she feels. “Would you like to begin preparing for the evening’s feast?”

“No, but I suppose we’d better anyway,” Dany says. She stands and goes to take her place before the vanity. Jon has finished addressing the guards and is shutting the door.

“How are you, Missandei?” he asks.

“Very well thank you, your grace. The great hall has been beautifully decorated again this evening.”

“And the excess food, from last evening?” Daenerys asks.

“Has been taken to flea bottom and distributed, your grace,” Missandei says.

“Good,” Daenerys says. She meets Jon’s eyes in her mirror. “I still wish I hadn’t let Tyrion talk me into seven nights of feasting.”

“We can’t cast off every tradition overnight. We must give the people some time to adjust to your new ways,” he smiles. “If you’ll excuse me, now. I sent for a boy to help me dress. And I asked them to send up your tea and whiskey.”

“Thank you.” Daenerys holds his gaze in the mirror a moment before nodding at him, with a private sort of smile. Jon smiles back, then slips into his chamber next door.

“Are you all right?” Missandei says when he has gone. 

“I’m only groggy from sleep, I suppose,” Dany says. “The past few days have been trying, have they not?”

“It was difficult to see the king in such a state,” Missandei says. She considers Dany’s braids for a moment, and then begins to undo them, deciding to start fresh. Dany has the hair of a wanton woman. “Especially when he is usually so steadfast.”

“Yes, Daenerys agrees. 

“But he has been able to find some peace, it seems.”

“Yes,” says Dany. Her eyes start to water again. “Gods,” she says bitterly, pressing her palms to her eyes. Missandei makes a sympathetic sound and comes around to kneel next to Dany, taking her face in her strong, cool hands. Pulling Dany’s hands away from her own eyes.

“It’s all right,” Missandei says. “Let your tears fall. It isn’t good to hold them in.”

“He was so angry at first. He told me some of the things that were done to him. The most unimaginable things.”

“More than you knew?”

“More details. I thought I had some idea of what his life must have been like in the brothel, but I didn’t. I may not still, who can say how much there is that he keeps from me even now? And then he put his mouth on my-on a place I’d never expected to be touched by anyone.”

She thinks Missandei will be scandalized but her friend only smiles softly. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much,” Dany says. “Is that wrong of me?”

“I would wager that was the king’s intent,” Missandei says. “For you to enjoy it.”

“Yes,” Dany says, starting to laugh. “But oh—when I think of where he learned it,” she says, her laugh evaporating.

“Perhaps it is good for him to take these things and turn them. He wants to please you, Daenerys. That is clear to see. This way he can turn something that was once painful into something beautiful, with you.”

Daenerys finds this thought comforting. She allows herself to consider it might be true. 

“I still haven’t told him about the witch’s prophecy,” Daenerys says. She feels guilty about this.

“Well,” Missandei says. “How could you have? You’ve had so many other things to work through first.”

Endless things, it seemed. Daenerys knows what she has to do. There is a knock on her door, and Missandei goes to answer it. Daenerys stands and strides with purpose to the door to Jon’s chamber, knocking as a courtesy but pushing the door open as she does.

Jon looks up at her, smiling. He is sitting as a boy fastens the buckles on the back of his brigandine.

“Jon,” she says. “I need to ride. You’re certain you’ll be all right to start without me? At the feast?”

“Of course--thank you, Addam,” Jon says, standing. “Of course I will.”

Dany goes to him and kisses him hard on the lips. It is likely a great shock to the boy, but she doesn’t care. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Jon kisses her back generously, giving her all of him. It is still new, still thrilling, to have her husband kiss her so passionately. 

“I’ll be here,” he says.

Back in her chamber, Missandei has mixed the whiskey with the tea and added lemon and honey. She hands it to Dany, and Daenerys takes it and drains the glass in one long drink.

“Help me dress for riding,” she says. “I’ll go to the feast later. But I need to ride, first.”

“Of course,” Missandei smiles.

  
  
  


The snow on the ground and in the sky illuminates the night, so that it is almost clear as day. She takes Drogon out over the sea. It is bitterly cold, but her body runs hot, it always has. They fly through the snow and Daenerys lets the wind and the flakes hit her face until she is breathless. Until she feels scoured clean.

The things Jon has told her are horrific, and yet they have not crushed Jon. He has not allowed them to make him small. So, Dany thinks, she will not allow them to crush her either. It hurts. It will continue to hurt, she knows. They will find their way through, together.

She thinks about what it must have been like for Jon, those first few months of their marriage. When he had given himself to her, over and over again, every time being reminded of his rapes. Every time, keeping that from her. Trying to hold himself together, trying to do what he felt he must. To fulfill his duty, but also for her. Jon had laid his body down for her like a sacrifice. She sees him that first night, holding himself so carefully above her, his face filled with concern, and tears fall, freezing on her face. She wants to go to him and pull him toward her and not let him go.

When she returns, Missandei is waiting for her. Dany’s cheeks are flushed with the cold, Missandei presses her palms into them, rubs to warm them up. When Dany is dressed, and groomed, they go to the feast. 

For a moment, before she goes through the entry to the high table, she stops, behind it, and watches. Jon is there, Sansa and Arya at his side, and Tormund beside them. He is wearing his crown, the fine silver one made of undulating dragons set with purple stones. It shines in his dark hair, his curls let down, freed from his usual tidy knot. He turns to Sansa and Dany can see his face. Jon is smiling, and his beauty takes her breath away. Arya says something and he lets out a bark of laughter. Tormund does as well.

She thinks about where his tongue was, only hours ago, and shivers.

As she steps into the room, Jon turns his head and sees her. His expression grows even warmer. Daenerys remembers all the many times she has witnessed him smiling and at ease until she’d enter and he’d close up like a keep drawing up its bridge, going tense and rigid. To see the warmth in his face and the smile in his eyes only deepen now seems like nothing short of a miracle. Jon stands, and then the rest of the hall is standing, the band going silent as she enters.

As she takes her place at Jon’s side, she is aware of the hundreds of pairs of eyes in the room, all trained on her. But they are distant, like a dream. 

She sees only Jon.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Salon_Kitty for beta reading for me yet again, and always offering such beautiful advice. If you haven't checked out her story, "The Book of the Stranger" yet, I HIGHLY recommend it, especially to those of you who also loved Red Sea. It's gorgeously written-I only wish I could do what she does with a sex scene--and incredibly thoughtful AND incredibly hot.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments, and apologies for the long interim between posts. Wow, things got weird huh?

Jon wakes with a violent startle to an arm sliding around his waist. In his mind he sees Theon, then Euron, before his sleeping brain can make sense of where he is. The Red Keep. Dany’s bed.

“I’m sorry,” his wife mutters, pulling her arm away, but Jon catches her by the wrist and pulls her back toward him, pressing her palm into his chest, right over his heart.

“It’s all right,” he says, his voice thick with sleep. For a moment he had been in a cramped quarter on a ship with two men in bed beside him, both filling Jon with a loathing so intense he sometimes quivers with it even as his body tenses to be breached. Dany’s soft palm on his skin reminds him he is here now.

Morning light streams in through the shutters. Jon squints against it. He’d had much to drink the night before, everyone had. The festivities at court had taken on a wild sort of revelry. It had been the last night of the feasting days; today courtiers and various lords and ladies from all over Westeros and beyond would begin to head home. Three days have passed since his encounter with Lord and Lady Fowler. Jon hasn’t made love to Daenerys since the night following the incident. He isn’t sure if she needed the space, or if he did, or if it was just that most nights they were returning late to their chambers, weary from drink and all the necessary socializing. They would sleep beside each other, as they had before Daenerys had taken Daario into her bed, and Jon would wrap his arm around his wife’s waist and let her fall asleep before pulling carefully away. He still had a hard time getting to sleep with his body so close to another’s. Even Dany’s.

Now Dany presses her lips to his shoulder and kisses him. “We’ll likely receive more offers for your sisters’ hands in the coming days,” she murmurs. “With so many people at court.”

Amused, Jon turns over and pulls her toward him, settling her head into the hollow of his shoulder. “A strange topic of conversation to wake me with, but I’ll try to follow,” he says, his fingertips brushing her arm.

“It’s just the way of people, isn’t it? Did I actually see Arya dancing with Gendry Baratheon last night, or did I overindulge in wine?”

“You saw it,” Jon sighs. “So did I. He’s already proposed a marriage to her though. Last year, at Winterfell. She refused.” Jon isn’t interested in thinking on whatever it is that Arya shares with Gendry overmuch. He knows the two of them shared a difficult time together, which was a certain way to form deep and complicated bonds.

“And Sansa,” Dany says. “With  _ Jaime Lannister _ ?”

Jon smiles. “Aye, that as well. I don’t think Sansa cares for the company of men anymore.”

“Then why was she dancing with Jaime Lannister?”

“Because he’s married to her sworn knight, I’d suppose,” Jon says. “Which makes him safe.” It had been a strange thing to see a Lanister spinning his aloof sister on the dance floor. War had wrought strange things among them all. 

“Do they both still wish to remain unmarried?” Dany says. Jon takes a breath, trying to get his brain to catch up. He is currently intrigued by the curve of Dany’s breast beneath her thin shift, an intrigue that is curious in itself. The awakening of an interest that has lay dormant in him for so long.

“Erm,” he clears his throat, attempting to focus. “I believe so, yes.”

“You’ve discussed it with them recently?”

Gods. Has she always woken with her brain so sharp, and Jon just hasn’t noticed? His brain is still slow, and meanwhile, his body is quickening, and Jon is struggling to keep up. “Not since before we wed. I’ll ask them again. If we do receive offers for them, they ought to know, I suppose.”

“There are plenty of houses out there anxious to ally themselves with the king’s family,” Daenerys says. “Offers will come.”

He doesn’t wish to discuss his sisters at the moment, or their private lives, and certainly not the events they suffered that lead to their current desires to spend their lives without the influence of men. Over the last few days, he has missed Dany’s body, and the small miracle of that is not lost on him. For just a moment before moving, he pauses, and considers if he ought to do what he is about to. But he knows she desires him, that has always been plain. And he is certain that Daenerys Targaryen will make it known, should he ever attempt to do something she doesn’t want. With those two things giving him confidence, Jon slides his arm out from underneath his wife and shifts down in the bed. He rolls on top of her with his face at her pubis, and holds her by her hips. Then he gives her a subtle, teasing look with his eyes. It’s not a look he had to learn in the brothel. He knows he looked at Ygritte this way. He remembers that, the playfulness between them. It doesn’t belong to Littlefinger. It is his.

“Is discussing my sisters’ private affairs truly what you wish to be doing right now, your grace?” he says.

Flames flicker in Dany’s eyes. “Do you have other suggestions?” she says, her gaze going heavy-lidded. “I have quite a list for Tyrion, perhaps we could begin ticking them off now.”

“Are you going to dress him down again?” Jon asks. “I hope so.” He loves to see her breathe her fire. He slides down further, until he can tuck his head beneath her chemise, and begins to make his way back up her legs, kissing a line up her calf. When he reaches her sex he lays his cheek against her thigh, where her skin is the softest. Here, close to her like this, there is little in the world besides Dany’s skin, her scent, and this power center of hers, hot and spiced like something licked by flames. It shocks him, how safe it makes him feel, how reverent, and Jon goes still. He wraps his arm around her opposite leg and holds her close, as close to him as he can, breathing her in.

“Are you all right?” Dany asks after Jon has been laying there for a few long moments.

“Yes,” he murmurs, opening his eyes. He places his thumb on her bud and moves it in slow circles. Dany responds with a little purr of contentedness, shifting her hips toward him. He wants to stay here forever, in this world of hers, soft and feminine and hidden. It is a heady pleasure, intoxicating. 

Jon rolls onto his stomach and sweeps his tongue up into her outer folds, one side, then the other, taking pleasure in her sudden gasp. He grips her under her thighs and lifts her legs one by one, draping them over his shoulders, shimmying his own body, so that her heels rest on his back. He has access to more of her this way. He pauses for a moment, pulling back to take in this view of her. Her silver hair, the center part of it already dampening with her arousal. The outer folds, shell pink. Jon puts his thumbs to her and peels her open, revealing the darker petals, more fragrant, more lush. For a moment he only massages her with his fingers, admiring this part of her, taking advantage of being hidden from her view when he is up this close. Pink and silver, like light and life. He wants to merge with it, with her, all the possibilities she holds. Holding her open with his fingers, he presses his nose into her, inhaling, and then he sends the flat of his tongue lapping at her, drinking of her. Feeling her thighs clench, her body shudder around him.

“I want to go all the way inside of you,” he mutters, and then makes his tongue into a hard point and does just that.

Dany moans and thrusts her cunt up into his face, as he moves his tongue rapidly back and forth inside of her. “Jon,” she says, sounding shocked, and it thrills him again, to have this effect on her. Her wetness begins to run freely and he laps at it, drinking it in. He brings his finger up to the swell of her and runs it through the wet, and then, as he moves his tongue against the pulsing little bead of her, he works that wettened finger into her lower opening. He hears his wife make a frantic noise. There is little air down here, and so the scent of Dany, and the taste of her, become Jon’s whole world. A safe world, a place he wants to remain. He works his finger deeper into her, stretching her rim carefully. With his tongue back inside of her, in her opening, Jon begins to work at her bud with his other hand. Focused, studious, even when her thighs clap the sides of his head like beating wings as she grows more and more frantic. Her dampness becomes a river, and Jon drinks of it, long and openly, gulps her down. 

He is teasing his tongue in and out of her when suddenly there is the unmistakable taste of blood, coppery and sharp, and he recoils, panicked--he has hurt her, made her bleed. For a moment he teeters on the edge of oblivion, almost leaving his body, before he realizes: her moon is upon her. It’s only that.

The panic is replaced immediately by sorrow. She will be heart-broken yet again, when she realizes. He will bring her over first, before he tells her, he decides. He captures the skin around her clit in his teeth, biting down gently before he begins to slave over it with his tongue, working at it in dedicated circles. Her waters and her moon blood soak his beard, beginning to pool on the bed beneath her, between her legs. She lets out a mew and it shoots through him painfully, knowing how upset she will be when she realizes her blood has arrived again, that she is not with child.

Her hips jerk up into his face, knocking him, and her heels drive down hard into his back, as if she will lift herself off the bed this way. He agitates the hot stone center of her quickly, his head nudging at her inner thighs as he works his head back and forth, his finger gently pressing into her arse, massaging her. “Jon!” she cries, and then she is arcing her entire body, digging into him, and this time, Dany gushes. Warm liquid spurts out of her, breaking against Jon’s face like a wave on the rocks. Jon’s cock surges and he can’t help but grind his own hips into the bed to work himself as he tries to drink her up, all of her, tries to catch her entire release in his mouth.

“What’s happening?” Dany says and Jon can’t answer, but to reassure her he lets out a hungry groan and jerks her closer to him, smothering himself with her, guzzling at her juices.

“Jon,” she repeats. “What . . .?” 

She is panting in the release of her peak. Jon allows himself one more long swallow of her, one more lazy tongue swiped up her split, before pulling off enough to say, beneath her skirts, “Your waters released.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, and then she is pulling her skirt up to her hips, exposing Jon. When his head is freed he takes a long breath of the cooler air and runs his hand down over his nose and mouth before turning his face to her, aware she has collected like rainwater all over him, his mustache and beard.

“It happens that way, sometimes, for women too,” he explains.

She looks skeptical. “It’s never happened before.”

“It doesn’t always,” he says, and before he can stop himself, he laps at her petals again before resting his forehead on her mound, his nose in her split.

“I love this part of you,” he mutters. “I love you, Dany.”

He feels her fingers in his hair, and raises his head slightly, wipes at his beard again. He doesn’t want to startle her with the sight of her blood on his face. When he thinks he is clean, he sits up, and leans toward her, brushing her hair back from her forehead.

“What is it?” she says, reading something in his eyes.

“You’re bleeding, darling. I’m sorry. Your moon blood.”

It is painful to watch the flush of her orgasm chill on her face, and darkness cloud it.

“Oh,” she says. “It isn’t due. It’s never been regular, for me.”

Jon doesn’t reply. He isn’t sure what to say to this.

“Some months it doesn’t come at all.”

He frowns, strokes her hair again. “That must be difficult. It must make you wonder if--” he stops himself.

“If I’ve conceived. Yes,” Dany agrees. “It does. I thought perhaps the last time we lay together . . .”

She doesn’t finish, doesn’t need to. He knows, he had hoped so as well. Jon wants to kiss her forehead. But he still has her waters, and her moon blood, in his beard. He also needs to relieve his bladder. “Give me a moment, love,” he says. “I need to step out, for just a moment.”

Daenerys nods, her eyes glancing on him and then drifting away, distracted. In her own world, her own pain. He wants to take it away.

As he lifts away from the bed, though, she grabs his wrist. “Don’t you want to orgasm? You may. Or does the blood unnerve you?”

“It doesn’t unnerve me,” Jon says quietly, his voice husky, a tug in his groin at the casual way she grants him permission. “But I would imagine you could use a rest?”

Her eyes search his for a moment before she nods. “All right,” she says, dropping his hand. “But come back to me.”

In his own chamber, Jon washes his face at the basin, cleans his teeth. Uses the chamber pot. He wonders if there’s anything he could say that might comfort her. It seems cruel every time it arrives, the blood, and yet there is nothing he can do about it. It is not a battle he can fight.

When he goes back into her room, the atmosphere is heavy. Dany watches him approach with a soft, sad smile. The sharp-mindedness and sense of purpose she’d awoken with have evaporated. Now she feels distant and unknowable, and Jon thinks this is how he must have felt to her all those months, when he was keeping so very many things from her.

He gets into bed beside her, sitting back against the pillows, and pulls her toward him, her back to his chest. “I’m sorry, Dany,” Jon says at last, his voice very quiet. “I never thought much about it before, but I’ve realized it’s possible that the issue is with me. In the brothel we took precautions to avoid it. But with Ygritte . . . we didn’t really. And she didn’t conceive.”

“No,” Dany says. “No, the problem isn’t with you.”

“You can’t know that,” Jon says. “It may very well be.”

“I do know,” she says. Her voice is far away and resolute, and Jon realizes there is something more here than what he has seen so far. He waits. The moment stretches on.

“We’ll never speak of it again,” Daenerys says. “If you don’t wish.”

“A child?” Jon says, confused.

“Euron Greyjoy,” she says, turning so she can meet his eye. “If you wish to put the matter to rest, say the word, and we will.”

Jon lets out a long breath. They haven’t spoken on it, these last few days. She has granted him space around the issue, and Jon appreciates that.

“When Sansa came to Castle Black, she had to convince me to try to retake Winterfell. I did it only at her urging. Her command, really,” Jon says, smiling softly. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“You didn’t want to retake it?” Daenerys asks.

“I didn’t think it was what I was--meant to focus on,” Jon says. _ Brought back for.  _ “What was one castle, even Winterfell, in the face of the end of mankind? I wanted to put any resources I had toward that. Defeating the Night King.”

“But Sansa was persuasive.”

“Aye,” Jon says. “And she was right, in the end, I suppose.” Jon takes a deep breath. “That’s how I feel about Euron Greyjoy. He’s not where I want to divert my resources now. I want to put anything--everything--I have to give into being your consort. Helping you, however I can. Doing right, by the people. Whatever desire I might have for revenge seems meaningless in the face of the daily struggles of hundreds of thousands of people.”

Daenerys is quiet for a long moment. “And you fear what violence such an effort might result in. You said it yourself.”

“That as well,” Jon says. 

“So you wish to let the matter drop.”

“I wish to move on,” Jon says. He takes a deep breath. “But I don’t see how to do that without killing Euron Greyjoy.”

  
  
  
  
  
While Dany bathes in her dressing chambers, Jon bathes in his, Ghost dozing by the fire as he does. He looks down at his right arm, where a pink scar the width of two fingers runs from elbow to armpit. Ramsay. Jon had woken gasping, spluttering water, as several men forced him into a box the size and shape of a coffin, and nailed the lid shut. He had tried to keep the panic at bay. Euron had valued Jon as a tool he imagined could bring him great power, but Ramsay saw Jon as nothing more than a bastard to be tormented, and Jon couldn’t be sure he didn’t intend to bury him alive. 

But no. After a time, hours it seemed, the lid of the box had been prised open and Jon had blinked against the light as into focus came Bolton’s grinning face. Jon was heaved out onto the ground, Ramsay prattling on and on, Jon struggling to catch up to where he was, what had happened. He glimpsed Theon. And then four men were strapping Jon to one of Ramsay’s crosses. When the paring knife had slid into the skin on the underside of Jon’s arm, he had thought Bolton meant to give him his death this way. A bad way to go, and Jon had said nothing, clamping his jaw resolutely shut, but a chill had crept over his entire body at the fate he was about to face. 

Then Bolton had hushed him in his ear and had spoken praising, gentle words as he had stripped Jon of his skin, Jon’s head rearing back, hitting the cross behind him, trying not to scream. Failing.  _ Oh bastard, you’re doing so well. Hush, I know it’s difficult. Just imagine what it would be like to have me pay such attentions to your entire body? Slowly, it takes hours. Perhaps Greyjoy taught you. There now, very good. We’re nearly half way done. _

Jon pushes the thought aside and slides down in the tub, dunking his entire head underneath the water, cleansing himself of the memory. There are several desires, each warring for his commitment. One is the desire to hide. The memory of the parts of himself that he didn’t merely show to Daenerys, but shoved at her, like an offering she never asked for, make his insides flinch at times. Make him want to hole up in his chambers, in the darkness, and not come out. He won’t give in to this desire.

Alongside it is the thirst for blood. Anyone’s. This is a part of Jon that he doesn’t believe existed until after he had fallen into Euron’s hands, and Ramsay’s. A certain pulse in his muscles, begging him to hurt, to kill. He had killed before, when he needed to, but he had never ached for it. Now he does.

And then there is his wife. Looking at Dany, he feels a heady mix of things. The desire to protect her from anyone who might ever try to harm her. The desire to make her happy--to give her this heir that takes up an incredible amount of room in their lives, for something that doesn’t even exist. Jon knows that the absence of something can weigh heavier than the presence of another. And then there is the desire to hand  _ more  _ of himself over to her than ever before, and see what she can make new. An image of himself asking her to hurt him flits through his mind, and there is the capacity to feel shame, but stronger than that is the memory of Daenerys in those moments. How solid she had seemed, how strong. It seems to Jon there is nothing she can’t alchemize.

She makes everything new.

His mind drifts to Sansa.  _ Why didn’t you ask anyone for help?  _ He sighs, feeling a residual twinge of anger at the memory. Sansa had changed much over the years, but she could still be as haughty now as she had been as a child. Sometimes it felt like she was trying to make him angry, trying to bring out a side of him that he’d rather keep under control.

For the weeks of his captivity with Greyjoy, Jon had clung on to certain things to keep from losing his sanity. The desire to protect others, to not see anyone else harmed in his name. And the duty that he knew he had been brought back for-to save the living from the dead. He had not spoken to the cruel god who had brought him back to life only to plunge him into the hell he lived in on the seas with his captor. His anger he had leashed, and leashed anew every day, in order to not rain more harm down upon the innocents Greyjoy used against him.

His anger didn’t feel leashed anymore. 

It had been true, what he told Daenerys. He worried about what the two of them could unleash together. If Greyjoy was alive, and he and Daenerys went out to seek him together--Jon imagined a path of blood and fire stretching to the unknown parts of the world.He knew what laid deep inside him. Sometimes it felt as if he had a dragon of his own, ready to destroy anything in his path.

But if he were to send their soldiers for him, to retrieve Greyjoy and bring him here, to the Keep, then there would be no need to bring a fire-breathing dragon into it. He would be at home, his new home. They could control the environment, control the meeting place, control everything. They would have an army of soldiers, should anything go wrong. Daenerys would be there to contain him if he snapped. 

He goes hard at the thought of this; his erection has been lingering since he was in bed with her. He imagines what it might feel like, to have her touch him in all the places he was touched. Tilting his head back, he wraps his hand around himself. It feels almost scandalous--he doesn’t have her express permission--but that’s a passing thought, a desire maybe, not an actual arrangement he has with Dany. Thinking of her, of all the places he might ask her to touch him, Jon strokes himself beneath the water. How it feels to be reigned by her, the strongest woman he thinks he’s ever known. He can see that she likes it, that it excites her as well, and he wonders if eventually she might do something about all the times he has wished to be punished. To be hurt. And does he want this because of what Euron had done to him? Yes, he knows. The desire wasn’t there when he lay with Ygritte. But that doesn’t matter, he decides. It’s part of him now, and if time has changed him, well, it’s changed them all. When he is close, he climbs from the bath and stands over it, water dripping onto the floor. He thinks of Dany telling him to kneel, commanding him to stroke himself, just like this, and then he lets his mind reach further, to other things she might command him to do. 

_ Bend over for me, Jon _ , she might say. So that he might be breached again, but by her.

_ Open your mouth. _

“Yes, Dany,” he whispers to himself, and then bites his lip as he comes into the water with a shudder, holding in a moan. 

  
  
  
When Daenerys and Jon enter the council room, the rest of them are there, waiting: Tyrion and Varys, Arya and Sansa, Ser Brienne. Grey Worm and Missandei enter with them, and Ser Willem, taking their places at the table. Daenerys sits at one head; Jon the other.

“Good afternoon,” Dany begins. “I hope you are all recovered from last night’s revelry.” She raises an eyebrow at no one in particular. “My lord Hand. The king and I would hear what news you have of Euron Greyjoy.”

“I received a bird from Yara Greyjoy only this morning, your grace,” Tyrion says.”The Lady of Pyke expressed her horror at the actions of her uncle, the usurper Euron Greyjoy. She says she believes him dead, but she offers five score ships to help you look, or to lead the search herself.”

“So she has nothing to offer,” Daenerys says, her voice cutting.

“Five score ships are not nothing, your grace,” Tyrion says. 

“They are if they have no idea what direction to go.” Dany says. Jon feels Arya and Sansa looking at him, but he says nothing. Not yet. 

“Lady Arya,” Dany says, calling Arya’s attention back to her. “What word have you of Euron Greyjoy?”

“He was last seen in Qarth,” Arya says triumphantly. Jon’s heart thumps at this. He rarely sees Arya even speak to anyone who isn’t in this room right now; how does she know the things she does? “It seems he fell in with the warlocks there, and then fell out with them. He was chased from the city. They say only a few mutes remain on his crew, that his ship is in bad repair, and that he had promised to rape and plunder the Summer Isles until he had attained enough wealth to sail for the Iron Islands. Where he believes he will kill Yara Greyjoy and take the Seastone chair.”

“How long ago did he leave Qarth?”

“Two moons, it seems,” Arya says.

Dany frowns, and says exactly what Jon is thinking. “So he could be anywhere by now. Anywhere in the world. Has there truly been no sighting of him in two moons?”

“Your grace, if I may,” Lord Varys says. Daenerys looks at him, surprised. “I am your master of whispers, your grace. I have been tracking the movements of Euron Greyjoy since we first received word of your plight with him, my king,” he says, his gaze shifting to Jon. Jon keeps his silence. “Euron Greyjoy is in Asshai. The people of the shadow city forbid no kind of alchemy or wizardry, and Euron has docked his boat at port there and spends much of his time drinking shade of the evening and questing for visions of ways he might still take the Iron Throne. He did reave across the Summer Isles and took several thralls, and as many women for bed slaves. He has since killed them all. And although it is true he had but one ship with him in Quarth, and then in Asshai, there remain a dozen ships crewed by men still loyal to him. Currently docked at the Isle of Lys.”

Tyrion gives Varys a look, clearly peeved that he has not been informed of this already. “All manner of sorcery and witchery are practiced in Asshai,” the Hand says. “This is not good news, especially as I have heard tell that Greyjoy already possesses certain unusual powers.”

“Aye, he does indeed,” says Jon. He does not elaborate, is not anxious to talk about it here. “Tyrion, how long would it take for a hundred ships to reach Asshai?”

“About two moons, your grace. If conditions were favorable. If not, as long as five.” 

“Luckily we do not need to sail quite so far as Asshai, assuming that is what was on your mind, your grace,” the Spider says. “A ship looking rather worse for the wear, filled with nothing but mutes, docked in Faros just days ago.”

“That sounds like his crew, but what of Greyjoy himself?” Dany asks.

“I believe it likely that, as he draws closer to Westeros, Greyjoy has had the wisdom to hide himself. Either that or his crew mutinied and killed him.”

Dany looks at Jon. “Which do you think more likely?”

“Greyjoy keeps his men loyal through terror. It’s hard to imagine anyone daring to consider betraying him and risk being flayed. I’d say it’s likely he’s alive.”

“He intends to make a bid for your throne, then,” Sansa says, raising an eyebrow at Daenerys.

“He will never have it,” Daenerys responds with unflappable calm.

“Send me,” Arya says. “I’ll take the face of one of his mutes. Kill him or bring him to you, whichever you’d like.”

Jon is ready for this. “Arya,” he says. “You’re the most capable assassin I’ve ever met. But you’re also my little sister. I won’t send you.” He pauses. Arya draws in a breath, preparing to argue, her expression hot. Before she can say anything, Jon continues. “But I won’t stop you, either.”

Arya’s gaze shifts to Dany and then back again to Jon, and she answers him with a solemn, satisfied nod.

“Do I gather correctly that we will be sending a fleet to Great Moraq, then, your grace?” Tyrion asks. The question is directed to Daenerys. But she looks at Jon.

“Not a fleet,” Jon says. “A single ship.”

“I see. You mean to take Greyjoy by surprise. One ship will not draw an eye, whereas a royal fleet would send Greyjoy running.”

“And leave us to chase him around the world, aye,” Jon says.

“Torgo Nudho,” Dany says. “You will take as many Unsullied as can fit in the hull of the ship, plus a few soldiers to pass as a crew. When you dock in Myr, Arya will locate Greyjoy. Together you will decide on the best course of action.”

“Yes, my queen,” Grey Worm answers. “The Unsullied will not fail.”

“Greyjoy had wizard slaves from Qarth and Volantis when I was with him,” Jon says, looking at Arya. “And he still may. It doesn't mean he can't be taken by surprise--he can. But you’ll need to use extreme caution.”

“I won’t even be me,” Arya says. “Don’t worry. He won’t see me coming.”

"Jon," Sansa says. "You told us Greyjoy had other worrisome abilities."

Her eyes are full of her meaning. Jon knows she is referring to Euron's ability to invade his mind, see through his eyes. He doesn't have an answer for her. He feels Dany's eyes on him, questioning.

"I don't pretend to understand whatever dark magic Greyjoy consorts with," Jon says. "But I assure you, he is only a mortal man. There's no reason Grey Worm and the Unsullied won't be able to hold him."

Sansa holds Jon's gaze for a moment, and then nods.

“Will we kill the traitor, my queen?” Grey Worm asks.

“You will take him alive,” Jon says. “And bring him to me.”

  
  


“Sansa,” Jon says as they file out of the council chambers. “Might I have a word?”

Sansa inclines her head, and together they hang back, waiting for the others to pass, before falling into stride beside each other.

“I never saw this part of the Keep, when I was first here,” Sansa says. “Joffrey kept me mostly to my rooms, or the great hall. Sometimes Cersei would invite me to her chambers for dinner. Before they killed father, of course.”

“I--” Jon doesn’t know what to say. He is dismayed to realize he has spent little time thinking about the memories Sansa must have, of the Red Keep. He knows that Daenerys, at least, thought to have Cersei’s former chambers converted to quarters for some of the serving girls, and has housed his sisters elsewhere. “Where did you live, in those days?”

“My chamber was in a different wing, far from where the queen is currently hosting me,” she says. She glances at Jon. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t trouble me much. Though I admit the throne room itself carries heavy memories. It’s where Joffrey had me beaten.”

“Meryn Trant,” Jon says grimly. He’s heard the story. When he had been publicly whipped, he’d been a man, in front of other men, on a ship far away at sea. Sansa had been but a girl in a throne room full of lords and ladies and her betrothed. He’s very glad that Arya killed the man. In a brothel no less.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. For what you went through when you were just a girl. I didn’t know, at the time, but--”

“But what? Even if you had, you couldn’t have done anything. You were a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch. And hardly more than a boy, besides. What would you have done, ridden up to the doors of the throne room and demand they hand me over at the point of your sword?”

Her words take a brutal effect. They remind Jon of helplessness--times when he had been unable to defend himself properly, due to age, or circumstance. For a moment, it takes effort just to let air fill his lungs.

“Anyway,” Sansa says, oblivious. “You were there when I most needed you. You took back our home.”

Jon lets out a heavy sigh. “It was all so long ago, it seems.”

“Does it?” she says sharply. “Time has affected us differently, then. I remember it all as if it were only days ago.”

Jon knows not what to say to this. Since she turned up at Castle Black, Jon has grown close with Sansa, closer than he ever would have believed they could be. But he knew little of how to comfort her--he didn’t think Sansa even wanted to be comforted. She wore her pain like armor. Let it distance her from the world. 

“But no matter,” she says. “You wanted to speak with me.”

  
“Aye.” His head spins a bit from her abrupt switch. “I thought you ought to know that the queen and I have received four offers for your hand in marriage.” Missandei had brought them in with their breakfast, proving Dany correct more quickly than Jon had fathomed possible.

Sansa stops short and turns to him.

“Is it her grace’s desire that I should marry?”

“No,” Jon says. “I only thought you deserve to know when men are asking to marry you. Of course you’re free to deny all of them.”

“Then I do. Deny all of them.”

“Do you at least want to hear who--”

“No,” she says. She gives him a lingering look. “It was my understanding that this is the reason you accepted her offer. So that Arya and I wouldn’t have to.”

“It was,” Jon says quietly. An alliance of marriage with the dragon queen of the seven kingdoms would mean the Starks were nearly impenetrable. They would not need to worry about alliances with other houses, for what house could match Targaryen?

“Well don’t think I’m not grateful,” says Sansa. “I am. And I know Arya is too. To think when I was little I wanted nothing more than to marry a prince,” she scoffs. “And then they married me to Tyrion. And then Petyr Baelish wanted to marry me. It all makes me quite ill. If you hadn’t married Daenerys, I would have had to consider Robyn Arryn, or the Prince of Dorne, or another bloody Flowers,” she shudders. “I can’t do it again, Jon. I won’t.”

“You won’t have to then,” Jon says. “From now on, I’ll reject all offers out of hand.”

Sansa nods and starts forward once more, through the halls of the keep. “We’re very glad that it turns out you like her. Arya and I.”

Jon glances at Sansa, the side of his mouth quirking in a flash of a smile. “Thank you for that. So am I.”

He’s meant to spar with Tormund, but before he takes his leave, Jon finds himself stopping, and turning to Sansa in the hallway. No one else is around.

“Sansa,” he says. “You asked me, a few days ago, why I never fought back, in the brothel. Or asked anyone to help me.”

“Oh,” she says. “Yes. I apologize. Brienne suggested that I may have sounded rather callous.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Jon says. “It’s only that--did Ramsay ever cut you because of me?”

A mask goes up over Sansa’s face. Her expression deadens into nothing. Gods, he doesn’t need to cause her further pain. He should have just let this matter drop.

“You don’t have to--” Jon begins quickly. 

“No,” Sansa interrupts. “Not because of you. He cut me plenty, but he never said it was because of you.”

That doesn’t answer his question, though, not fully. “Did he ever--I’m sorry, Sansa--”

“I’m not made of glass, I won’t break. Just say it, whatever it is.”

“Did he ever flay a part of you? A small portion?”

Her gaze flickers to his arm, where it was done to him. “No,” she says. “He did it to a woman who tried to help me, but never to me. Why do you--oh,” Sansa says, her blue eyes blinking rapidly. “They told you that they had.”

Jon nods. “The thought of them doing that to you made me disinclined to fight. That and everything else they did to ensure I’d obey them.”

“Of course,” Sansa says. “Jon, I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to say. It’s just,” she shakes her head. “I hate knowing what was done to you, and when I’m upset I can become rather strident, I’m afraid.”

Jon offers his arm, and when she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow, he places his other hand over hers. “There’s no need to apologize, Sansa. I just wanted you to understand.”

“I do, of course.”

They walk in silence for a moment, before they reach the corridor Jon needs to take to head down to the practice yards. “I’m meant to go spar with Tormund, I’m afraid. Is there somewhere I can escort you?”

“Take me with you,” Sansa sighs, as if she can’t believe she’s saying it. “And I’ll have another go at the bow.”

Jon smiles at this. “Do you think I’ve done the wrong thing?” he says suddenly. “Letting Arya go?”

  
Sansa sends him a sidelong glance, and then rolls her eyes. “It’s amusing, brother, that you thought you had any choice.”


	18. Ship To Wreck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Salon_Kitty for helping me to once again wring this chapter out like water from stone, and for providing me with an ongoing dialogue about the story, as well as fresh ideas that enable me to keep writing when I feel like just saying "actually that's it, I'm finished."
> 
> There are a couple new tags that are worth taking note of if you are highly selective in what you read.
> 
> Thank you all!

When Dany and Jon arrive back at the Keep, cheeks red from the cold, they speak very little. Evening is falling, and in the growing dark, Jon feels weighed down by everything there is to say. He is relieved to see that their maids have come and lit all of the many candles in their bedchamber, that a fire is roaring in the hearth. He needs the warmth, even if Dany never seems to.

“You’re upset with me,” Daenerys says. Jon turns from the fire and sees her still standing near the doorway, looking as uncertain as he has ever seen her look. 

“No,” he says, and goes to her. Wraps his arms around her from behind. How could he possibly be upset with her? He won’t try to reassure her further that the witch was wrong. Witches held dark and fearsome powers, he knew that better than most. He moves his hands down to her sides, cupping her hips, and then slides his thumbs to her lower back, pressing.

“Does it ache, here?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. He hears the note of surprise in her voice, that he should know this. “Some.”

“Come lay down. Let me massage your back.”

Dany turns to him, smiling hopefully, relieved she has been forgiven. As far as Jon is concerned, there is nothing to forgive. He gets her out of her dress--she leaves her small clothes on around her waist, due to her flowering--and lays her on her belly on the bed, drawing a sheet up to cover her seat. When she’s settled, he goes to her little vanity across the room.

“What are you looking for?” she asks.

“Oil,” he answers.

“The large blue vial,” she says. Jon unstoppers it and sniffs. Almond, he supposes. It will do nicely. He lets some drip onto his hands and then straddles her across her lower back, warming the oil between his palms before pressing them to her skin and sliding up, slowly.

Daenerys lets out a long groan of pleasure. He kneads his way back down, pressing his knuckles into her lower back. For awhile, there is only the sound of the fire in the hearth and Dany’s contended groans as Jon works her muscles, up and down.

“I had to go on as if the witch might be wrong,” Dany says quietly, after awhile.

Jon doesn’t alter the sweep of his palms up along her spine, his fingers turned out to graze gently at her breasts. 

“Of course you did,” he says, bending to place a kiss on the sway of her back. “I don’t blame you.”

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she says. “You were sacrificing yourself to my need for a baby, over and over again. Bedding me against your will, and all that time I knew it might be futile, and I didn’t tell you. All those nights when you felt pressured to come to my bed, and me all the while knowing it was useless. Seeing how it troubled you.”

“Dany,” he hushes. “You were doing what a queen must. I’ve been a king. I understand something about that.”

Her head lifts and she peers over her shoulder at him. “You are a king,” she says. “You are _ the _king.”

“Yes, of course,” Jon says.

“But you mean in your own right. Before we were married.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees. He hadn’t intended to start an argument. “I only wanted you to understand that I know what it means to have a duty you must fulfill.”

She watches him a moment, over her shoulder, and then nods, settling back onto the pillows. “Thank you. I had to try.”

“You still have to,” he says.

“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s been so long, and nothing.”

“Well,” Jon says, trying to choose his words carefully. “Those months were not wholly unbroken by circumstance. There were stretches of time when we weren’t trying.” 

“But Jon,” she says. “Every man marries a woman he hopes will be able to give him children. And I might not be able to give you that. I should have told you at the outset.”

“I don’t care so much, about the child,” Jon says. “I wanted one for you, because I saw how much you wanted it, how important it was to you.”

“But don’t you want a son or a daughter? An heir?” she sounds incredulous at the mere suggestion that he wouldn’t.

“I . . .” Jon struggles to find the right words, feeling inept, unable to match the delicacy required. “If there was to be a child, I’d be happy, of course,” he says. “But it’s not--the desire for one doesn’t occupy an inordinate amount of my thoughts. I should be happy just to be with you.” And anyway, they can’t be sure. He might still be the one to blame, he thinks.

“Do you mean that?” Dany says, as Jon’s thumbs rub low on her back.

“Yes,” Jon reassures her. Dany thrusts her hips toward him, and Jon needs no further encouragement. He slips his hand smoothly beneath her small clothes, roaming between her legs, the oil making everything slick. His fingers encounter the extra cloth she is wearing to absorb her blood, and he pushes his hand in between the cloth and her cunt, undeterred by the dampness there. Cupping her sex in his palm, Jon thinks of all the times he reached his peak and she didn’t, over all their moons together. He wants to make up for lost time.

Dany writhes against his hand, working herself on him. The way her hips move, serpentine and undulating, is incredibly alluring and he hears a faint growl from the back of his throat. He’d put his whole mouth over her sex right now and not care at all.

Jon finds her clit and begins to stroke it. He shifts, moving off of her to allow him to angle his face closer toward her sex, which he is anxious to taste, to caress, to lose himself in. There is a part of him that is stunned by the strength of his own desire. 

He settles onto his side and moves one of her legs, draping it over his shoulder to give him better access. Using his thumbs, he splits her open like a spring bud and buries his face there, swiping his tongue over her stone. Daenerys’ entire body quivers and jerks like a bolt of lightning has gone through her.

“Jon,” she pants. “Are you--it’s not too much for you?”

“You could sit on my face right now, Daenerys,” he pulls back to say, the words rushing out without any forethought. “Do you understand?”

“All right, then,” Dany says.

“Do you want to?” He half hopes she does, his cock giving a little jerk at the thought. There would be something primal in emerging covered in her blood, something appealing about the idea.

“I don’t--I don’t know,” she says with uncertainty. “I’m bleeding.”

He can’t help but smile. “I’m aware,” he says. Deciding to make it easier for her, Jon moves up alongside her, peeling off his shirt, and then rolls onto his back. “Come here, my dragon,” he says, jerking his chin. A wicked glint flashes in Dany’s eye and then she pushes up onto her knees as Jon smiles at her and reaches for her small clothes. He expects she might be hesitant, so he takes on the task, pushing them down along with the padding she’s wearing to absorb her moon blood. When she’s free of them, he grabs her hips and pulls her toward him, until she is positioned right above him, her quim hovering over his face, blood gathered in the silver hairs, her arousal glistening.

“I’ve never done this before,” she says.

“I have,” Jon answers grimly, and then pushes that memory aside and pulls her down onto him, his tongue out, ready. 

_ Seas take you lad, you’re even miserable after bringing a woman pleasure, _he hears Euron say, and his entire body jerks.

“Are you all right?” Dany asks immediately.

“Yes,” he growls, and then moves his face wildly, painting himself in her blood and her arousal for him, his cock stiffening painfully, a drum beat sounding in his ears, in his chest. He thinks he hears Ghost growl, but quickly realizes that the sound has come from his own chest. 

He looks up at Daenerys, but she has her head thrust back, her eyes shut, and seems unbothered by it. Everything else drops away and there is only this: this room they share, Dany above him, the knowledge that she will catch him and pull him skyward if he starts to fall into some dark place. He slides his tongue inside of her and begins to pump, slowly at first, then building speed until he is thrusting into her flagrantly, devouring her, wolfish. Then, with a thrust of her hips Dany pounds him, hard and forceful, assertive here as she is everywhere else. “Fuck yourself on me, Dany,” he withdraws slightly to say.

Dany cries out and does as he says, riding him hard. Jon grips her hungry little bud in his mouth and pulls on it furiously, tasting blood and the lighter flavor of her arousal. Soon she is letting out shorter, desperate gasps. She fucks him in wide sweeps, thrusting her cunt and her bum toward his face, Jon kissing her there obediently, working her until her cries become loud and wanton, grinding shamelessly on him. Coating him, he knows, in her blood, he can feel it, and it isn’t too much. He wants more. The blood smells like battle, tastes like war, the sick smell of his own blood on the sheets in a dark cabin on a ship. The thought jolts him but he returns to himself quickly--submerged underwater and then back up for air. When she peaks she cries his name like a prayer and Jon sucks her bud even harder, goaded on as her entire body shudders with her release. 

“Jon,” Dany says again, and he opens his eyes because he wants to watch her as she takes in the sight of him, coated in her blood and her cream. It must be a sight, as he is rewarded with a widening of her eyes, her mouth opening in surprise. 

“Gods,” she breathes, and he thinks she is blushing, even through the flush of her orgasm. “You look like you’ve been in battle.”

He doesn’t know what to say, or what is wrong with him, that he is so anxious for her to see him like this. So he holds her gaze and hopes she won’t look away. She doesn’t. For a long moment, she rests above him, sitting across his breastbone and looking into his eyes as he blinks back at her, asking her for something he doesn’t know how to vocalize. She puts her hand to his hair line and brushes it back, locks of it dragging out of the mess on his face where they have been stuck.

“Jon,” she says at last, and there is an acknowledgement in her voice that comforts him.

Jon only nods. She breathes in deeply. “Shall I clean you?” she asks. He nods again. Dany climbs off him, smearing more blood onto his chest, and stops to pull her small clothes back on before going to the basin of water. When Euron violated him, Jon would bleed, every time. She returns with a wet cloth and he lays still as she gently swipes it down his face, cleaning the blood and her own arousal away. When she is finished, he grabs her wrist and pulls her back into the bed beside him, wrapping his arms around her.

“And what of you?” she says.

“Don’t worry,” he says, and kisses her shoulder. “Just rest.” He can’t make himself voice it yet, the thing he truly craves. How does he tell his wife that the thing he wants right now is to feel split open, breached, that his body longs for something more harsh and bracing than what he thinks she will know to give him?

Dany turns to him, eyebrow raised. “I don’t want to rest,” she says. “Not yet.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I would like very much if you would take your clothes off, and then bring me a glass of wine,” she says. 

“All right, Dany,” he says, sitting up.

“A casual address for your queen,” Daenerys says. She is being cheeky, but there is a line of command running through her voice and Jon can’t help but respond.

“Yes, your grace.” He says it with a playful bow of his head, but his voice goes husky. There is a smear of her blood still painting his chest and he leaves it there. He stands and lets her watch him as he slowly pushes his breeches down, freeing his cock.

“You’re hard,” Daenerys says.

“I am, your grace,” Jon says.

“Unbind your hair.”

Jon reaches up and pulls on the leather cord that binds his hair away from his face, letting it fall loose. Dany smiles.

“Good. The wine?”

He crosses the room, giving her a full view of his arse, keeping his back to her as he pours. He can feel her eyes on him. When he brings it back to her she takes the goblet from him, sitting up on her elbow, her hair loose about her shoulders, her cheeks still flushed.The smell of blood and sex are in the air, but somehow he is all right.

“I await your command,” he says. He wants her to bend him over the bed. He doesn’t know why, other than the fact that, in that sort of surrender, a peaceful oblivion can sometimes come. But he doesn’t know how to ask her for it. 

“Lie down beside me,” Dany commands, and so Jon does, mirroring her position, propping himself up on one elbow. Dany sips her wine slowly, resplendent in her satiation, her command.

“Take yourself in your hand,” she says. 

This is good. With a long, bracing breath, Jon does. He lays his head back on the pillow and reaches down, wrapping his sword hand around his cock. Giving himself over to her control, ready to float away on it.

“Stroke yourself for me,” she says.

“Yes, Dany,” Jon says, and does as he’s told. Begins to move his hand up and down the length of his member. Daenerys watches him, and he watches her watch him, his eyes on her face. She sets her wine down and runs her hand along his abdomen, starting where his pubic hair begins and moving up, to his breast, running her fingers over his nipple.

“Would some oil help?”

“If it would please you,” he says. She takes the vial and holds it up. Jon opens his hand and she drizzles the almond oil into his palm. When he puts his hand back to his cock, it glides freely, moving easily up and down the length of him now. His cock pulses and, finding his rhythm, his eyes flutter shut. He imagines her slapping his face, making him open them again, and the thought makes him groan. His body aches for it. 

_ You enjoy it, and you hate yourself for it. _

Euron’s voice. Jon’s eyes snap open to search the room wildly. “Fuck,” he mutters. Will the man never leave his mind?

“What?” Dany says.

“Sorry,” he shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Will you help me--”

Dany shifts down so that her breasts are at his face, lifting one, and he knows what she wants. He turns his head and takes her nipple into his mouth, suckling on her as he tugs his own cock. Her other breast falls against his cheek, cradling him. “Very good,” Dany says, and he feels her hand on his brow, pushing his hair away from his forehead. The gesture makes him feel young, even small, but he doesn’t mind it. He wets her nipple with his tongue and then pulls on it hard, grazes it with his teeth. Dany makes a noise of pleasure.

“Jon,” she says after a moment. “Stop.”

He responds instantly to her command, his body well trained. His hand stills on his cock and he opens his eyes, looks at her. Waiting.

“Put your hand above your head,” she says, and he does. Releases his member and moves his arm up, touching the head of the bed.

“What if I said that was enough, and told you to stop?” Daenerys asks.

Jon frowns, his heart beating in his cock with arousal. “Then I would stop,” he says. Doesn’t she know? It helps him. When she dominates him, he is nowhere but right here.

“Would you truly?”

“Of course,” he says, though it pains him, his brow pinching with arousal and effort. “I’m yours to command. I want it.” The last three words he only breathes, barely a whisper.

Something hot flashes in Dany’s eyes and she leans down and claims him with her mouth, giving him her tongue, and Jon takes it, opening wide to accept her, to let all of her in. When she pulls back and thrusts two fingers into his mouth, Jon takes those as well, pulling on them, twining his tongue around and through them, and knows he is going to need to bring her to her peak a second time, tonight.

“Stroke yourself again,” Dany orders, and Jon does, pulling on her fingers with his mouth as he takes his cock in hand. He keeps his eyes on her, wanting her to command more of him, to thoroughly invade him, knowing that there is never anything she could ask that he won’t do. If he could just obliterate himself in her, he thinks he might find some sort of peace. Dany pulls her fingers out of his mouth--Jon pulls back on them, hard, not wanting to release this connection to her--but then she pushes her breast back between his lips and he takes it, suckling at her.

He’s close. He slips his mouth from her breast and breathes “Dany,” opening his eyes, and she raises an eyebrow at him, her face enigmatic, as if she knows what he needs but will not help him. “May I--will you tell me I can . . . .?”

“You may spend,” she says. He takes her breast back into his mouth because he wants to come this way, suckling at her. After a few more rapid pulls, Jon’s back arches as he strains up into his own hand, his cock releasing long ribbons of pale, milky come onto his belly, spilling down toward the groove of his thigh, his body shuddering and brow furrowing at the release.

His breath coming hard, Jon watches her face as Daenerys reaches down and swipes two fingers through his seed. She brings those fingers to his mouth and he opens wide to accept this offering, obediently taking his own come. When he has sucked her fingers clean, she reaches down for more, but this time she smears the milky substance over her breast. Jon doesn’t need to be told. He puts his mouth around her nipple and cleans her, drinks of it as if it were milk from her breast. 

When she is clean, he flicks his eyes back up to her, waiting to see if there’s anything else she wishes to put in his mouth. Dany only gazes at him a moment before putting her hand to his cheek and bending low to place a tender kiss on his lips. Jon wants to wrap himself around her and stay like this forever. He reaches for a cloth on his bedside table and cleans his seed off his belly and thighs. When he turns back to her, Daenerys is opening her mouth to say something, a hint of a question on her face, but Jon answers it before she can say anything. He moves his hand back down between her legs again, and Dany sighs and eases back onto the pillows, parting her legs wide for him.

“You’re all right?” she says.

“I’ll tell you if I’m not,” he says, and then bends his head toward her breast, taking the opposite one in his mouth now, giving it all the attention he gave the other. Dany lets out a long, luxurious sound of pleasure, and Jon tugs harder, until her nipple hardens in his mouth and she gasps. He slides a finger inside of her, and then another, pressing her clit with his palm and working it until her hips are jerking and she is coming a second time with a series of shuddering gasps.

“Jon,” she sighs, and turns toward him, her eyes shutting. 

“Do you want anything?” he asks. 

“No,” she says, nuzzling her face into his chest. “Just this.”

Jon smiles faintly. She is clearly satiated, and although there is some part of him still begging for a different kind of release, he is glad to see it. “Hold on,” he says. He slides from the bed to dunk a cloth into water and clean his hands. Then he goes about the room, snuffing out all the candles. When the chamber is dark but for the fire, he slides back into bed with Dany. Her eyes don’t open but she nestles back into his chest and he places a kiss on the top of her head before pulling the blankets up around them.

“Goodnight, Dany,” he whispers.

“Goodnight, Jon.”

But for a long time, Jon can’t sleep. Every time he starts to drift away, a strange sensation overcomes his body and his eyes snap open, dizzy with a phantom rocking and swaying, as if he were on a boat at sea.

*******

Arya arrives first, alone. No one is calling it a sending-off party, of course. The occasion is too somber. But Jon has invited Tormund and his sisters for a drink of ale, on this night before Arya leaves, in his solar after the evening’s feast.

“It's a good room, at least,” Arya says, going to one of the many windows, as if this is all that Jon has stood to gain from the last year. A nice room. “It will be sunnier here than at Winterfell, someday. You won’t know what to do with yourself.”

“In the sun? It did shine at Winterfell, though I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

“I remember,” Arya says quickly, a note of defensiveness in her voice. Jon smiles at it, handing her a mug of ale tapped from a cask that has been brought up for the king. 

“I’m sure you do. Just like you remember that old peddler who used to come by and make untoward comments about your Lady Mother’s--well. What was his name, Mullin? Mudge?”

“I remember him too,” says Arya. 

Jon lifts his eyebrows at her.

“Stop. You made it up?”

“I must not have, if you remember,” Jon says. Arya shoots a quick fist into his arm. Jon laughs, and pulls her in, messing her hair. When she pulls away, she drains half a mug of ale, quickly.

“I’ll be carrying you off to bed, if you’re not careful,” Jon says.

“Gods,” Arya says. “You’re just like father, do you know? Always so serious.”

“So you both tell me. And who do you take after?”

“No one,” Arya says. “I’m only like me.” 

Jon can’t argue with this. They sit down, and as Arya drinks and looks into the fire, Jon looks at her. Her hair in its fastidious bun--or was, before he ruined it--her clothes perfectly fitted. So different from how she was as a girl, always looking like she was just coming in from tussling with ruffians through mud and bramble.

“It’s strange isn’t it,” she says suddenly. “That your wife hasn’t conceived a child?”

Jon frowns. He would very much like to have one evening where no one talks to him about Greyjoy or babies or uses the word ‘consort’ like it lessens him, somehow.. “I--not exceedingly strange, I--”

“Is she cross with you about it? Does she even realize it might be her fault, and not yours?”

“It’s no one’s _ fault _,” Jon says. “And no, she isn’t cross with me. She doesn’t blame me.”

“You’re lucky there,” she says. “When you’re a girl, it’s all they care about. Whether or not you can give your husband babies.What happens if you don’t give her a child?”

“Then we don’t have a child,” Jon says. 

Arya raises her eyebrows and looks at Jon with that knowing gaze of hers. It can be unsettling, sometimes. “Easier that way, isn’t it? Not to bring someone into this world who everyone can only use to hurt you?” Jon smiles weakly at this. There is more truth in it than he likes to think about. “That’s why I’ll never have one. A baby. But you and the queen have to.”

“We don’t,” Jon says. “We’re the queen and king. No one gets to tell us what to do.”

“Everyone gets to tell you what to do,” Arya says, and smiles at Jon’s surprised bark of laughter. “If there’s no child, who will she name as her heir?”

Jon drinks his ale. “Why? Do you want the job?”

“Not in a hundred winters,” Arya says. “I can’t imagine anything more miserable. No offense.”

“Sansa, most likely,” Jon admits. “But that stays between us.”

”You mean you’re actually serious? Gods. I thought you were joking.”

“Who else is there?” Daenerys had been the one to say it. There was not another Targaryen in the entirety of the world. The thought of that alone was sobering. It was monumental enough--the dying out of such a great house--that Jon had of late been considering what Dany might need to do, if their union continued to prove unfruitful. What he might need to suggest to her. It was enough to make him wish, at moments, that she had tried to conceive with Daario. If the witch was wrong, and the issue was with Jon, that was not a burden he wanted to bear for the rest of his life. The vanishing of House Targaryen. A knowing settles into his gut. He will mention it to her, he decides, after Greyjoy is eliminated.

“She would actually let a Stark inherit her throne?”

“What choice would she have?” Jon says. He is out of patience for the conversation. It makes him feel helpless and deficient, that he might leave his queen such a terrible lack of options. He turns the conversation to something that has been on his mind, the last few nights, as he lays awake and imagines how it all might play out when Arya and Grey Worm take Greyjoy. He is haunted by the images this man holds in his mind of Jon, that he will feel compelled, surely, to inflict upon Jon’s sister. Jon spent much of that time bound on a leash, forcibly naked in a bed, and it sickens him to think of images of him like this lodging themselves in Arya’s mind. “Arya, listen,” he says. “When you find Greyjoy, there’s no telling what he might say, if he recognizes who you are. And I think he will, even if you’re wearing one of your faces. He sees things. Whatever he says, you mustn’t listen to any of it.”

Arya squints her eyes at him. “What are you worried he’ll tell me?”

“He’ll try and taunt you,” Jon says. “He’ll say anything to provoke a reaction. He’s half mad, but he’s still half sane, which is what makes him so dangerous. Just don’t listen to him. Whatever he says.”

“All right,” Arya says, with a thoughtful look on her face. “I won’t listen.”

Jon nods. He can only imagine the things that foul man might say about him to his sister. “Tell me another story,” he says. 

“A story?”

“Of what happened to you in your lost youth. Tell me one about the Hound.” 

“There is one funny one,” Arya says. Jon sits back, smiling and listening to her tale. 

Then Tormund arrives, and behind him Sansa, who has brought Ser Brienne. And later, when Ser Jaime comes looking for his wife, with Tyrion beside him, it would be rude not to invite them both to stay. Jon’s eye keeps wandering toward the door. He has told Dany about the occasion, knows she has chosen to arrive after he has had some time alone with his sisters. At last she appears, Missandei and Grey Worm behind her. She arrives at the moment Tormund is telling his giant’s milk story again. When Jon sees her, he stands. Tormund pauses his story and rises, along with everyone else. Dany waves her hand, indicating they all should sit. Jon looks at Tormund, surprised to see him standing. Dany isn’t his queen.

“What?” Tormund says. “I can be polite.” Then he throws his arm around Jon’s neck and jostles him about. “But let me tell you about your King Crow,” he says. “And how he lead us into odds a hundred to one to take his home back from that cockless Bolton bastard--”

“No, no,” says Jon. “Tell us about the she-bear, I don’t think Ser Jaime’s heard it.”

“Ah, he wouldn’t understand,” says Tormund.

“I’d like to have the chance,” says Jaime.

“You have your own story regarding a bear, do you not?” asks Tyrion.

“He does,” says Ser Brienne. “But it is a story of honor and as such, may not be of interest to the present crowd. Her grace and his grace excluded, of course.”

“Are you suggesting I’m not a woman of honor, Ser Brienne?” Sansa teases.

“Of course not, my lady--”

“Nor my sister Arya?”

"Of course you and the Lady Arya are most honorable," Brienne begins, flushing. 

“Tell us one of your jokes then, brother,” says Jaime, rescuing Brienne.

“Jokes,” Tyrion says, sipping his ale. “Why for jokes, I like to turn to Missandei of Naath.” Missandei blinks and draws herself up straighter.

“I have heard another one, Lord Tyrion,” Missandei says. “Since we exchanged them last. Another joke.”

“My lady please,” Tyrion says, his eyes widening. “By all means. Let me get you a chair.” Tyrion hands his cup of ale to Jaime and drags another chair into the semi-circle they have formed by the hearth.

“Torgho Nudho, will you sit?” Tyrion asks.

“I will stand to hear the joke,” Grey Worm replies. Jon exchanges a glance with Dany. Her face is carefully composed, but he sees a spark of amusement in her eye.

“Three Dothraki ride into an ale house,” Missandei begins. “The barkeep says, “I am sorry, we don’t serve horses milk here. We only serve them ale.” 

There is a brief pause, and then a round of polite laughter goes up among them all--all except Tormund, who guffaws loudly, seeming to have found the joke legitimately humorous. Missandei smiles, pleased with this reaction, and says, “I have another.”

“We must hear it,” says Jaime. “Already I like your jokes far better than my brother’s.”

Missandei nods, and, begins, “Three Dothraki horse lords walk into a bar in King’s Landing. They order three fermented mare’s milks. The barkeep says, ‘that will be three golden dragons’. The Dothraki say ‘but we only have one dragon’. The bar burns down.”

There is a moment of silence when all eyes turn to Dany to see how this joke will be received. Luckily, she immediately dissolves into surprised laughter. As if by cue, a round of laughter goes up among them all, heartier this time than before. Missandei smiles as she takes a delicate sip of her wine. 

The gathering goes on. Missandei and Grey Worm retire early, but everyone else stays up late, including Arya, despite Jon telling her several times that she ought to rest. “I’ll have plenty of time to rest on the ship,” she says, before joining in some sort of drinking game with Tyrion that involves telling truths and lies. Arya seems to have to drink far less than Tyrion or Tormund, at least. Eventually Daenerys takes her leave as well, but Jon stays up until Arya and Sansa at long last go yawning to their beds. He doesn’t know when they’ll all be gathered together like this again. He doesn’t want to miss any of it.

  
  
  
  


The next morning, they stand on a balcony beneath a cold blue sky, watching a ship bearing Arya, Grey Worm, and a select number of Unsullied away across the sea. Jon slips his hand through Dany’s, and she turns to look at him. She is resolute, as always, and he takes comfort in that. She must read something in his eyes, because she studies him a moment, and then asks,

“Are you worried?” 

Of course he is concerned. He could never send a single man into battle lightly, and this isn’t even battle--this is Jon’s personal mission. If any lives are lost, they will not fall for the protection of their home and families, or queen and country, but in Jon’s pursuit of vengeance and his attempt to please the people he loves. “I've sent plenty of men into worse odds,” he says at last. It feels hollow.

“But never your sister,” says Daenerys.

“No. Never my sister.” Jon sighs. “But there’s no sense trying to deny someone’s nature.”

“No.There certainly isn’t.”

Her bleeding has stopped. In a few days, she says, her body is likely to be fertile for conception again. If indeed it is fertile at all. He doesn’t want to let this ceaseless pressure to get her with child effect the peace they have managed to find with one another. And yet it’s hard, sometimes, for it not to remind him of the early days of their marriage, when every night Daenerys would want him to come to her, and every night Jon would struggle, haunted by the ghosts of his past. He wishes there was some way to ease this burden, for both of them. Being a leader was not an easy undertaking, Jon knew this from watching his father. But even Lord Stark, he thinks, had not to face the sort of pressures Jon has met.

“Tyrion knows about the witch’s prophecy, I assume?” he asks.

This catches Dany off guard. “He does,” she says, a bit warily. 

“And what does he make of it?”

Dany sighs. “He says witches are not to be trusted. And that nothing is more important in securing the future of Westeros than us producing an heir. Without one we are vulnerable to would-be usurpers and all manner of plots and ploys.”

Jon nods, taking this in. “Tyrion is a very intelligent man,” he says.

“Yes,” says Dany.

“But fuck Tyrion,” Jon says.

Dany widens her eyes at him and lets out a little laugh. “Jon,” she says.

Jon squints at her, smiling. “I mean no offense to the man but you’re Daenerys Targaryen. You have one of the strongest alliances Westeros has seen in generations. You certainly have the largest army. And if all that weren’t enough, you have a bloody dragon.”

“And I have you,” Daenerys says.

Her words surprise him, bolster him and soften him at once. He doesn’t know that he would have counted himself an asset to her, considering the last few months. But it’s good to know that she sees him as some kind of strength in her corner. He moves toward her, puts his arms around her waist. “Aye,” he murmurs into her hair. “You have me, always.”

They stand there like that, in the cold wind. After a moment Jon feels her hands moving lower, down his back, resting tentatively over the top of his arse. He pulls back just enough to press his forehead to hers.

“Go on then,” he says.

“It’s all right?” Dany asks, looking up at him.

Jon sighs and wonders if she will ever feel comfortable enough not to have to ask him this question. He wonders if he will ever feel comfortable enough for it to not need to be asked.

“It’s all right,” he says, and she palms his seat in her hands, squeezing her fingers into his flesh. Jon presses his groin to her, thrusting gently upwards. So many people have wanted his body, he sometimes has to remind himself that it’s different, for his wife to crave him the way she does. It is natural, for a husband and wife, to want the physical comfort of one another. Dany moves toward him, taking up his lips in a kiss that Jon meets whole-heartedly for a blessed moment before some dark anger shoots through his body and he rears back, pulling away. Dany goes still as Jon breaks their embrace, stepping back.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“No, don’t.” Jon is so frustrated with himself though, that the words come out harsh. He turns away from her, sweeping his gaze back out over the sea. The ship is just a speck on the horizon. Dany doesn’t say anything and he bites his tongue against the urge to snap at her. It’s not her fault. None of this is her fault.

“We’ll just stand here a moment,” Dany says, placing her hands on the railing. Even from up here, they can hear the crush of the ocean against the shore. Jon breathes, trying to still this wolfish thing in him that seems always ready to claw its way straight out of his chest and attack.

A great, terrible cry pierces the air and Drogon swoops low over their heads. Daenerys turns her face up to the beast, smiling, but Jon’s body startles and his heart starts pounding wildly in his chest.

“Please excuse me, Dany,” he says.

Daenerys answers, “Of course,” but Jon barely hears it. He is already through the doors, moving. Wishing he were not a king, wishing he could run.

  
  
  


***

With the party to find Greyjoy dispatched, Daenerys turns her energies toward ruling. There are endless matters pulling on her attention, some important, others seem trifling. They are still rebuilding from the wars, while surviving a long winter, and Tyrion tells her to be patient but Dany sometimes feels that they will never be done rebuilding. She has left Jon out of most of these affairs in the past. But one day when he leaves her at her writing desk to go train with the soldiers, and finds her still there hours later, upon his return, he bends to kiss her forehead and says, “You do know I can both read and write. Perhaps you ought to let me help, with some of these?” and so Dany begins to let him.

Jon is unpredictable. He seems better much of the time, but there can be no telling when a dark mood, brought on by dark memories, she supposes, will strike him. Even as they work, sometimes, going over figures of supplies and grains or the construction of new orphanages and kitchens to feed the poor, she will catch him gazing off into a distance, and know he is somewhere she cannot meet him. Sometimes he murmurs the man’s name in his sleep.

And when she takes him to bed, it is difficult to know what to expect. One night shortly after Arya had left, they had made an attempt. But Jon had been distant. It had reminded her too much of the early days of their marriage, and Dany had insisted they stop their efforts. “Let me just take care of you,” Jon had argued, sliding his hand between her legs, but she had felt his heart wasn’t in it, and had refused, going to sleep still aroused, with his arm around her.

There were times when Jon seemed strong, but there were as many nights when he struggled. He could be incredibly generous, dedicated to her pleasure as if it were a noble cause, and that was a thrilling and powerful experience. Other nights, however, Jon’s more wolfish self would come out. He’d use an exhilarating amount of force, say things that were shocking. He had slipped into his wolf again, one evening when she was above his face on the bed. It had lasted only a few moments, but she’d pinned his wrists to the furs, and right as he had come back, he had growled “Hit me, Dany.” 

This had stopped her cold. “What?” she said, searching his eyes, trying to determine who she had beneath her--Jon, or his wolf, or some strange blend of both. 

“Please,” he had said, but his voice had been angry, not pleading. 

“No.” He hadn’t been fully present, in that moment. But she had tied his hands to the posts of the beds and ridden his face ruthlessly, pinching at his pink nipples as she did until he nipped at her sex in retaliation. She had gasped and when she met his eye, she had seen the dark request there again, but she hadn’t indulged it. The thought made her uneasy. She’d put her hand over his mouth instead and kept it there until she came, Jon gazing up at her with his eyes glittering darkly. His anger was a tricky thing--both alluring and dangerous, something that he needed to unleash as much as he needed her to control.

Other nights he would apologize quickly. A fortnight ago, he had pushed her firmly down onto the bed and fallen onto her, seating himself inside her swiftly. “You’re always so wet for me, your cunt,” he’d murmured into her ear. She hadn’t seen anything wrong with it, had been caught up in the throes of it all, but a look of horror had come over Jon’s face and he had withdrawn and fallen to the floor on his own knees. “I don’t know why I’m behaving like this,” he’d said.

“Like what?” Daenerys had asked, bewildered, sitting up on her elbows to look at him.

“Please forgive me, your grace. I’m so sorry. Let me take my leave, I beg you.”

_ Your grace _. Sometimes he called her that as a submissive sort of flirtation. Other times, however, it seemed to signify he had snapped back into a place of true regret and was distancing himself from her, punishing himself. She had been tempted to tell him no, he couldn’t go. But commanding him was one thing. Forcing him to do something against his express wishes was another. She’d let him leave. He’d apologized to her in the morning, waking her with his mouth on her cunt, lapping at it like she was made of honey, and had left Dany indeed feeling bee bright and buzzing. 

  
  
  


Tonight Jon has been perhaps a bit touchy, but still tender to her. He has made her come twice and Dany is riding herself on his cock when her hand wanders to his lower opening, thinking of how much it pleased her to be touched there. She brushes her fingertips along him, a first curious foray, but something flashes in Jon’s eyes and Dany quickly pulls away.

“I’m--can I touch you there?” 

“Yes,” Jon rasps, as if it pains him. “Yes, I want you to. But you’ll have to tie me down first.”

There it was. It continued to confuse her. Jon would ask her to do things, while also making it clear that they would engender such a strong reaction in him that restraints might be required. Or more than restraints, even. “If I hurt you, you can beat me,” he had muttered once, into her ear, before nipping at her breast, leaving her gasping at the sensation and the idea of it. How was she to measure such loaded requests? “I know you’d like it,” he had added, and Dany had felt seen, in a way that was terrible, and wondrous.

“Why should I have to tie you down?” she asks him now, easing her fingers back toward his opening, teasing them around the center.

Jon’s eyes squeeze shut; whether it is from pleasure or pain she cannot determine. “I want to feel it, with you,” he says. “But I don’t know how I’ll react.”

“So I should--” she says, pressing a finger in.

“Not now Dany,” Jon groans. “We’re not prepared.”

He is afraid he will hurt her, always, but Dany doesn’t think he will. Not truly. “I don’t want to tie you down. I want you to obey me,” she says. And then she presses her finger in further.

Jon’s hips jerk up off the bed, jolting her with his strength. “Go on then,” he says. “Try it.”

There is anger in his eyes, a challenge. For a moment, it gives Dany pause. Then she brings her other hand, the one that is free, to his mouth.

“Prepare it,” she orders.

Jon’s eyes hold an heady mix of lust and anger as he obeys. She pushes two fingers into his mouth with some force, and Jon takes them, suckles them until they are wet, not letting up even as she pushes them too far down his throat, until he has to hold back a little gag. It sends a hot pulse of arousal down the center of her body, a renewed longing in her loins. Dany withdraws her fingers and brings them down to his arsehole, and pushes one in, watching him carefully to see how he’ll react.

There is no sign that Jon even feels it. “That’s nothing to me,” he says. Dany senses that he wants something more, but she doesn’t know what.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” she asks. She wants to understand this man beneath her, wants to reach the places in him that are closed off to her.

Jon moves with a shocking power. In an instant he has her flipped to her back, hovering over her. Dany stares up at him wide-eyed, breathing hard, as Jon puts his own fingers in his mouth and wets them. Then he moves them quickly--

“Jon--” she says, a clear warning in her voice. But Jon ignores this. He pushes in to her lower opening and Dany lets out a little cry. It is arousing, and frightening, and she isn’t sure how she feels about it. And then he pushes in further.

“That hurts,” she says, and instinctively raises her hand. Before either of them can find out if she would have struck him or not, Jon seems to catch himself. He slides his fingers out of her, folds his hands behind his back, and then raises his chin, offering his face.

“Go on,” he says.

“No,” she says, watching him. She needs to understand. This need of his is strange and new and as much as she wants to give her husband what he wants, she can’t do it without first understanding what is going on inside him, what wounds he thinks will be soothed by her hitting him, or banished. Startled out of his skin, perhaps.

“Dany, please.” His voice is more desperate now. “You can do it. It’s all right. I want you to.”

“But why?” she asks, and sees the bewilderment in his own eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says. His hair is loose and hanging in his face, and his large, dark eyes are pleading, his cheeks flushed with shame. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

  
“Lay on your stomach,” she says. Jon moves to obey, lowering himself gracefully down onto his belly beside her. Dany straddles his thighs, looking down at his pale, narrow hips, the muscled curves of his buttocks, and then, before she can think on it, she draws back a hand and smacks his arse.

“Again,” Jon says. 

“No,” she says, because she is the one in charge here, after all, and he needs to know that. “What is it that you think me hitting you will give you?” she asks.

“I want to be with you in a normal way,” he says. “But I can’t. I don’t remember how.” Dany shuts her eyes against the ache of this, gathering herself. “But the pain, or even when you just tell me what to do--it keeps me here. It releases something. I’m sorry,” he says.

“Who says it isn’t normal?” she says quietly. “I like the way were are together.” The wild luck of finding someone so well-matched for her as Jon, in an arranged marriage; the wild luck of loving him, and lusting for him, this husband she would have had to take, no matter what--it isn’t lost on Dany, none of it.

“I can’t explain it,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “I just want it. My body does.” 

Deciding she will try this for him, then, this harsher way he wants it, she finds his lower opening and drives her two fingers into it, quickly, before he can fight. Trying to shock him. Jon drops his head into the pillows and moans, but it is not a sound of pleasure. It is a sound of frustration.

“It’s not enough, Dany,” he says, his voice plaintive.

“What would be enough?” she says, feeling equally frustrated. He is distraught, and she doesn’t know how to help him. She pulls her fingers out of him and slaps his arse again. “That?”

“No,” he says. “Harder. With something, use something.”

“What is it that you want, Jon?” she says, close to tears now.

“I’ve told you what I want.” It’s somewhere between a cry and an angry growl, the affliction in his voice is obvious, and it hurts her to hear it. “I want you to punish me. I just--I want so badly to be--to be--”

“What? Tell me,” she says. When he is silent, she says, “I command it.”

“There are certain--certain devices,” he says, and then stops.

But she isn’t going to let him come this far for nothing. “Go on,” she says.

“I know you don’t want this accursed--whatever this is, with me,” Jon says. “You want something normal with somebody who isn’t so disturbed. So soiled. And you should have it.”

“You’re not soiled,” Dany says. “You’re mine, and I am yours. Tell me about this device.”

“Please, just,” Jon says, his face buried in the pillows. 

“Please what?”

“You like it, after all, don’t you,” he says, and turns beneath her, the motion forcing her off of him. She lands next to him on the bed.

“Like what?”

Jon moves so that he is on top of her again, pushing her down onto the bed. Before Dany can even take a breath, he has her wrists pinned down. He undulates his body on top of hers, pressing his cock into her sex. She can feel his hardness, his longing for her, the way she longs for him, and she thinks, _ you’re wrong, there isn’t anyway I’d rather be _. She wraps her legs around his back, she wants him in her, she wants him pounding her hard.

Then Jon speaks. “You like controlling others,” he hisses at her through his teeth. “You’d like hurting me. So just do it.”

The sting of this makes her gasp. She searches his eyes, bewildered, and sees how tortured he is by his own desires. He is like a stampede of wild horses, she realizes. He is unable to stop himself. He has become the way the Dothraki can oft grown in battle, unable to stop killing even when it is time. She makes her voice very hard, narrowing her eyes, her lip curling in anger.

“Get off of me and go to your knees by the fire,” she says.

Jon gazes down at her for a long moment, his hands still at her wrists. Then, rather than do as she’s said, he thrusts his cock into her again, grinding against her groin. The hardness there between his legs, the strength and power of him hovering over her, sends a thrill of titillation running over her whole body.

“You will be punished for that,” she warns. Knowing that is what he wants.

There is so much fight in his eyes, she truly doesn’t know if he will obey her. This sort of play with Jon is like approaching a wild direwolf in a forest with a hand out, hoping it won’t attack. Jon releases his grip on her wrists and moves backwards, off the bed. Daenerys watches the ripple of his muscles, the sway of his hips as he goes to the hearth and, with a final hot glance at her, drops to his knees.

Dany takes her time in going to him. She rises from the bed and puts on a dressing gown, one that slips over her head. She goes to the table and drinks a glass of water, giving him a moment to breathe, to calm down, feeling his eyes on her like irons heated in the fire until they glow. At last she goes to where he kneels naked on the floor, his cock jutting up from between his legs, so hard, so needy that she can see wetness glistening on the tip. Jon tilts his head up to meet her, looking defiant.

“Tell me about this device,” she commands.

Anger flashes in his eyes again. She has the sense it is protecting him from whatever storms are raging inside of him, and chooses not to react to it. “It’s an object made to look like a man’s cock,” he spits at her, clearly hoping to shock. “But a woman can wear one, if she chooses. To penetrate a man.”

“And that’s what you want me to do? To use on you?”

“Yes,” he says it like a challenge. Daring her to reject him.

“Very well,” she says. “I’ll get one. And next time you come to my bed why don’t you bring me . . .” she hesitated.

“What?”

“Some sort of belt.”

She watches a shudder ripple through his entire body. He breathes hard, his eyes still glazed in anger. But he nods.

“Good.” She reaches down and takes her skirt in her hands, gathers it up about her waist, revealing her cunt. “Now you will kiss me here, again and again, until you are able to be calm,” she says, and drops the skirt over his head. Jon’s arms immediately wrap around her backside, pressing her toward him.

“Yes, Dany,” he says, his voice muffled. He doesn’t move though, not for awhile. He clings to her as if he was a sailor shipwrecked at sea, and she was a rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Seas take you lad, you’re even miserable after bringing a woman pleasure" and "you enjoy it, and you hate yourself for it" are lines taken directly from Red Sea by Half_life.


	19. Peaceful in the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salon_Kitty, thank you so much for your help on this. Thank you for the shape you gave to the dinner scene, which changed the interaction that follows into one with a bit more sweetness, I think. And certainly your input made the chapter stronger by far. (For those of you who haven't read The Book of the Stranger yet, Salon_Kitty is approaching her Jon and Dany half of the story, so keep that in mind)
> 
> Thank you all for reading. As I draw closer to the end, I'm so very grateful for you.
> 
> CW: pegging.

“They’re . . . not what I was expecting,” Daenerys says.

“What were you expecting, your grace?” Missandei asks.

“Something rather less literal,” Dany answers, raising an eyebrow.

They are in Dany’s bedchambers in the late afternoon, surveying an assortment of the devices Jon has requested Dany procure. She’d spoken to Missandei about it that morning while she had bathed and dressed. Now Jon is down among the soldiers, watching them at their paces, and Dany stands next to Missandei, looking at the three objects. One is onyx and smooth, and Dany thinks that if she didn’t know its purpose, she might not have guessed. A second is made of glass and is bulbous, and though Missandei assured Daenerys it was thick enough to be safe, the idea of it makes her nervous. The third is solid gold and shaped to look exactly like a man’s member, complete with a vein running up the side that makes Dany smile. She picks up that one, testing its weight in her hands.

“I do have another, your grace,” Missandei says. “Made of jade and carved to look like a dragon.”

“Goodness,” Dany says. “For our first try that seems a bit much, perhaps.” 

Missandei only smiles.

“And the use of these is not uncommon?”

“Not at all. They are quite common, which is why I had them already, your grace. I have other objects of pleasure as well, should you decide you would like to sample them.”

Dany sighs. “For a woman who has been married twice, I feel I know very little of sex.”

“The Dothraki are not known for their expertise in this area, your grace,” Missandei says. She pulls a small vial of oil from her trunk and hands it to Dany. “You should use this on it first. Otherwise it can be quite painful.”

Dany frowns. This is what she’s afraid of. “Won’t it be painful for him anyway? To be entered like this?”

“It can vary greatly. The oil will go a long way to help. You can start slowly, using your fingers at first.” Dany goes red to her ears. “There is a certain give to that area of the body that can be increased with patience. It is also possible, Daenerys, that his grace wants it to hurt.”

Dany sighs. “Yes. It seems as if he does. I’m glad to hear you say it, I thought I might be mad.”

“There is . . . truly no end to what men and women might desire,” Missandei says, always diplomatic.

“You’re right, I suppose,” Daenerys says. There was a thrill in it, the power of commanding someone as strong as Jon. There was such power in her husband--in his physical self, but also in his presence, in his soul. A quiet sort of power. Jon had no need to go preening about, making stupid, brutish displays of strength the way lesser men did. There was something in him that was inviolate. Jon could not be broken. That was how he had survived what he’d survived, after all. The fact that a man like this longed to submit himself to her in such ways was exhilarating. When she told Jon to kneel, and he did, when he asked for her permission to spend himself, Dany could feel herself swell with power. She felt like Drogon in the moments before he would breathe fire, gathering strength, conjuring flame from some unknown, inner realm of hers. Capable of anything. Capable of flight.

But then she was reminded of Jon’s words.  _ You’d like hurting me. _ He had been this way over the last nearly two moons, since Arya and Grey Worm had left for Faros. She understood he’d been trying to spur her into something, but the words had stung nonetheless. She didn’t want to harm him, or anyone else. “Do you truly think I should go through with this?” she asks Missandei.

“I don’t think he would have risked asking you for this if he hadn’t been thinking about it for some time,” Missandei says.

“I suppose there’s no use wondering exactly why he might desire such things?”

“Many reasons, your grace,” Missandei says gently.

She is right, of course. Dany takes a breath, gathering herself. “So I just--” she makes a thrusting motion, stabbing the object into the air, as if it were a sword.

“No, your grace,” Missandei says, and Dany doesn’t miss her tiny smile of amusement, at Dany’s naivete. “It fits into this harness.”

“It what?” Daenerys says, flushing again. Missandei smiles.

“I will show you.”

  
  
  
  
***

“Ser Willem,” Jon says, as Adam helps him change for dinner. “I wondered if there’s something you might do for me.”

“Of course, your grace,” the knight says. 

Adam fastens the clasps on Jon’s coat of plate. “Will there be anything else, your grace?” he asks.

“No, thank you, Adam,” Jon says. When the boy has left him, he turns to Ser Willem. Over the last few weeks Jon has gotten to know the man, and he likes him. Willem had been knighted many years ago by Ser Arthur Dayne, around the time, Jon thinks, that the legendary man knighted Jaime. He is composed, dignified. He keeps his dark hair short, some of it has begun to go to silver. His beard is close trimmed as well, the skin on his face shows gentle lines. But his eyes are warm, and Jon sees wisdom there.

“What I’m about to say,” Jon begins. “May I trust that it will remain in your confidence?”

“Of course, your grace,” Ser Willem says. “On my honor.”

Jon nods. The man has seen Jon at his worst, huddled on the straw in the dog kennels, so Jon figures he has little to lose by sharing what he is about to share. And he must, he is baffled by his own behavior over the nearly two moons since Arya’s departure. He never knows what he is about to do, what mood or fear is about to overtake him. He can’t think about some of the things he’s said and done in bed with Daenerys, not now, or the embarrassment will paralyze him. He doesn’t recognize himself. And so there are certain steps he must take. “As Greyjoy’s arrival approaches, I find myself wanting to ensure we are all prepared. You see, when I was a captive of Ramsay Bolton’s, Greyjoy was sometimes able to enter my mind, as if he were warging into me.”

Ser Willem nods. “I see, your grace.”

Jon is grateful for his calm response. “I don’t know if his ability to do this was specific to that time, or those circumstances. But I have to prepare for the possibility that Greyjoy might still be able to see through my eyes. Or even take me over. As a warg does to an animal.” There was no telling what new magic the man might have picked up in Asshai.

Willem nods. “All right. How can I help?”

“I’ll need you to remain close, to see that I don’t become a danger to anyone around me. I must not be allowed to harm her grace, or my sisters. Or anyone else. Do you understand what I’m asking?”

Ser Willem’s gaze is somber. “I do, I think. I’m sworn to protect you, your grace. It is you I serve, your life I would give my own for.”

“I understand that,” Jon says. “And to protect me, I need to know that you will restrain me, if necessary. To protect the queen, and Lady Sansa, and Lady Arya.” When Ser Willem remains hesitant, Jon says, “I don’t doubt that Grey Worm would kill me, if he thought it necessary to protect her grace. By restraining me, if it comes to that, you’ll likely be saving my life.”   


With a heavy sigh, Ser Willem nods. “All right. I’ll do what is necessary.”

“Thank you, Ser Willem,” Jon says, relieved. He hurries on, wanting to get it out, get this over with. “And if you’re ever with me, and I give you cause to believe I’m not myself, or if her grace tells you that I’m behaving in a way she cannot comprehend, you must take my sword, and lock me in this room, and make sure I remain here until Greyjoy is dead.See that he’s killed swiftly, should such a thing occur.”  _ If I start to speak to you in Greyjoy’s voice. If a madman is seeing through my eyes. _

“Your grace,” Ser Willem says, his head rearing back, eyes blinking rapidly. Jon has shocked him. “When one is appointed the personal guard of the king consort, there are certain confidences he must be prepared to keep. But this? I will do anything I can for you, your grace. But you’re asking me to imprison you. The king.”

Jon is frustrated, but he knows Ser Willem is right. “Lock me in, then, and give her grace the key. And I’ll speak to her about it, so she’ll understand. It’s not a fair thing for me to ask, I know. But if Euron Greyjoy is able to see through my eyes, it would put the entire realm in danger.”

Ser Willem gives him a long look before bowing his head. “You will speak to Queen Daenerys?”

“Aye, tonight. You have my word,” Jon says.

“Very well. I will do this thing you ask, if I must.”

“Thank you,” Jon says. It is a relief to know that Ser Willem will not often leave his side, that if Jon crosses into some place where Dany cannot reach him, his guard will be there.

  
  
  


***

Missandei is slipping a silver necklace comprised of coiled dragons around her neck when Jon knocks on the door to his adjoining chamber. “Come in,” Dany says.

She watches his reflection in her mirror. He is handsome in his black coat of plate over his crimson brigandine, his silver gorget with the images of a wolf and a dragon intertwined in what could be battle, or could be physical union, studded with rubies. She had it made for him when they were newly married, and it’s still one of her favorites. How difficult it will be to get him out of all that elaborate armor when they go to bed together later, she thinks. The top part of his hair is smoothed back and bound away from his face, and at just the sight of him, she feels desire awaken in her body.

He meets her eyes in the mirror and gives her the small, sad smile he always gives her. “I wondered if I might have a word, before dinner, your grace,” he says.

“Of course. Thank you, Missandei,” she says. She turns in her chair so she might see Jon. She’s wearing a new gown, made of silver silk and white fur. It has the strong shoulders she favors, and a full skirt, but the cut at the chest goes lower than most of her winter wardrobe. Jon comes closer, but as Missandei leaves the room, his eyes fall upon her and he stops. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. 

Dany smiles. “Thank you. It’s a relief you finally think so.”

His eyes widen at this. “I always thought so, Dany. That was never the issue, believe me.”

Her cheeks flush. It sounds as if she’s been searching for compliments, like some silly maid. “How shameless you’ve made me,” she says. “Forgive me. What did you wish to speak of?” She remembers Jon’s tongue in her buttocks, and represses a little shiver.

Jon opens his mouth, drawing in breath, and for a moment Dany thinks he might say something flirtatious. She glances at the door. It would be quick work to lock it. But when Jon speaks, he isn’t playful. “I just had a conversation with Ser Willem, and I told him I’d speak to you about it because of what I asked of him.”

“Oh,” she says, trying to quell the pulse between her thighs. “Do go on.”

She listens as Jon tells her his fears of what Greyjoy might be able to do. It stuns her to realize that this man has violated every part of Jon--not only his body, but his mind. But not his soul, she reminds herself, her mind going back to her thoughts that afternoon. His soul is only his.

“If anything of the sort should occur, it will be quick work to kill Greyjoy,” she tells Jon, when he has finished. “There won’t be any need to lock you away.”

“But from the moment he arrives, you and I must not be alone together, as a precaution. We’ll see to him right away.”

Daenerys nods. “All right. But Jon, he never managed to take control of you from the inside before. There’s no reason to believe he will now.”

“It’s unlikely, I suppose you’re right,” Jon says. Daenerys isn’t sure what to say. She knows he’s been unnerved by the impending arrival of Greyjoy. These last several weeks, since Arya left, he has reminded her of the time she spent in Dragonstone, so close to taking the Iron Throne, but not there yet. That time had been difficult for her, too, the way the anticipation of something is often worse than the actuality of it. After years and years, being so close to something that was still just beyond her grasp. She had felt brittle, then, her nerves too raw. Remembering this, she feels a sense of urgency that Greyjoy should be brought to her quickly. That they should at last see this tribulation to its end.

Jon smiles at her now. “But if Ser Willem does lock me in a room and give you the key, you’ll remember he did it on my orders.”

“I’ll remember,” she says, seeing that the plan is important to him. “And I’ll have Greyjoy executed immediately. And that will be the end of this,” she says, leaning toward him, taking his face in her hands. “Jon. It’s going to be over.”

Jon nods. “Aye,” he says. He looks at her thoughtfully, such depths in his eyes, but as usual, he keeps his thoughts to himself. 

“The object you asked for,” Dany says. “I have it.” She tries to keep her composure, but her groin is already pulsing at the thought. “Do you still wish me to--?”

“Yes,”Jon breathes, his eyes closing momentarily. “Very much. If you don’t object.”

_ You’d like hurting me.  _ “I don’t want to hurt you. That is, it does bring me a certain pleasure to feel that I’m helping you. But I don’t ever want to hurt you just--just because,” she says.

Jon shakes his head. He places his hand over her hand, where it rests against his beard, squeezing it. “I know you don’t, Dany. That was unfair of me. I’m sorry.”

“All right,” Dany says. “Tonight, then.”

Jon meets her eyes and gives a quick nod. He pulls away from her then, and sits up. “I suppose we ought to go down.”

“I suppose,” she says, her gaze lingering on him. Her body is crying out for him, her cunt beating. She can feel dampness gathering in her small clothes already and it seems impossible to wait to sate this need until after the feast, which will go on for hours. Yet she doesn’t know when it is all right to approach Jon, or how. She lets him initiate all of their sexual encounters, because she fears propositioning him when he is too uneasy. She opens her mouth, but then shuts it again, uncertain as to what to say.

Jon is watching her. His eyes narrow thoughtfully and one side of his mouth quirks up in his sad smile. “Dany,” he says. “Would you like it if I were to kiss you right now?”

“Yes,” Dany breathes.

“Would you like it more if I were to kiss you beneath your skirts?”

“Gods, yes,” Dany says. “That is--if it’s all right.”

Jon doesn’t speak. He moves back toward her and slips to his knees when he reaches her. Then he takes the hem of her silk gown in his fingers and begins to draw it up.

“It will take us forever to get you out of all that, though,” she says, looking at his armor.

“So it will. I can wait. Let me see to you,” he says, and this sends another throb through Dany’s body. Jon pushes her skirt up to her knees and then ducks beneath it, between her thighs. She is wearing stockings that come to her mid thigh, and he kisses the very top of one, and then the other, before hooking his fingers in the waist of her small clothes. She lifts her bum off her chair so he can slide them down, and she feels his breath on her parting, cooling the dampness there. When Jon puts his lips to her quim, her whole body shudders. He latches on to her and pulls at her hungrily, no slow warming up this time. When Dany whines and jerks her hips, he lathes his tongue up her petals and then swirls it around her bud. A most undignified sound escapes her throat.

“Jon,” she gasps, needing more. She wants him to fill her. She wants him to fuck her, she realizes. Wants to be tossed down onto the bed and feel him filling her, merging with her. “I want you in me,” she says.

Jon pulls off of her sex momentarily, and she knows he his wetting his own fingers. Then he eases one into her and begins to pump. “Another?” he asks, his voice muffled by her skirt.

“Yes,” she says. “I want your cock.” It comes out before she can think, a breathy decree, and Jon’s chuckle reverberates through her quim. 

“Later,” he says, and slides another finger into her. He thrusts them in and out of her smoothly, reattaching his mouth to her bud. It doesn’t take long for her need to build so close to breaking that she goes, she fears, a touch berserk. Dany pulls up her skirt and threads her fingers into the loose curls at Jon’s nape. Then she pulls his face toward her, lifting up slightly on one palm, crushing him to her sex. Jon growls and hooks the arm that isn’t inside of her under one thigh, holding her to him. Dany can’t help herself. She cries out with her climax, wild, hot pleasure overcoming her, falling in crushing waves over and over her entire body. A long peak, it seems to ride on and on, thunder rolling across an endless stretch of land. When the waves subside, her head rolls back against the back of her chair as she catches her breath.

“Dany?” Jon says.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve still got me.”

“Oh!” Dany releases her grip on his curls and Jon draws back. “I’m sorry. Are you all right, did I--was I too--”

She is afraid she sees something dark flit across his face like a shadow, but Jon shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You’re perfect.” As if to prove it, he rocks to his feet and then bends down to kiss her, hooking one finger under her chin to tilt her face to his, and she tastes herself on him. When he pulls away, Dany’s eyes scan him quickly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to?”

“I’m sure,” he says. “Come. Let me take you to dinner.”

“You’d better clean your face,” she says. “I’m all over you.” She expects one of his wry remarks, but Jon goes to the basin silently, wiping a cloth over his face. Dany watches him. His silence makes her nervous. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Jon says.

Dany isn’t convinced but there’s nothing more to do. She checks her hair in the mirror to make sure it’s still in place, straightens her gown. Then Jon offers his arm to her and she takes it. 

  
  


***

Tormund settles in next to Sansa at dinner, taking the seat that is usually Arya’s. The dining hall is crowded tonight, and lively. The Dothraki are boisterous as always, their version of the evening’s feast including dancing and an occasional arakh fight and spilling out the doors and into the yard, where the snow has paused.

“So will you tie him in the yard and let the Lannister soldiers have their way with him?” Tormund asks him, thunking his plate onto the table before him.

Sansa raises an eyebrow at Jon, but says nothing. Jon takes a drink of his ale. He can’t say the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. “I hardly think that would be fitting for her grace’s court,” he says instead.

“Heh,” Tormund laughs. “You mean her grace, the dragon queen? The one who cut men’s cocks off all the way across the narrow sea?”

“It was only in Mereen,” Jon says with a faint smile. It had come up at yesterday’s council meeting. Dany had reminded Tyrion that it was how she had dealt with rapers before taking the Iron Throne, when Tyrion had protested her insistence that they close down every brothel in Westeros. Tyrion had looked close to tears in his frustration, trying to explain to his queen that the crown exacted hefty fees every moon from the brothels; that their existence helped keep the royal coffers lined. Daenerys had been wearing an expression that Jon knew well, and had a fondness for--her intractable one--as she explained that since they knew there were people working in brothels against their will, they could not be allowed to remain open.

Jon had suggested regular inspections rather than a total shut down, with her Unsullied charged with interviewing the workers there and making certain everyone was there of their own volition, removing any who looked underage or who reported duress at once. Sansa had agreed to ensure the procedure was carried out in the North as well, using their own local armies. This had satisfied Dany. Throughout the entire discussion, everyone had managed not to look awkwardly at Jon, to pretend that the king consort was not the very reason for the entire meeting.

Hearing this talk at dinner, Dany turns away from her conversation with Missandei. “Do you have a better way of dealing with rapers?” she asks Tormund. 

“I don’t think you should have done any different, Dragon Queen, if that’s what you mean,” Tormund says. “Men follow strength. I don’t imagine any woman could be a queen without cutting off a fair amount of cocks.”

Dany looks at Jon. “I suppose I’d agree,” he says. Dany smiles and then nods at Tormund. “Perhaps you should attend more council meetings, Tormund. It would be nice to have someone around to agree with me.” With that, she excuses herself from the conversation, turning back to Missandei and Tyrion.

“Well, what will you do with him then?” Tormund asks, lowering his voice just for Jon.

He’s been thinking about it, of course, in the weeks since seeing the company off across the sea. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. They’ve received only one raven from Arya, reporting a safe journey so far and that all was well. Jon had hoped for more correspondence but it wasn’t uncommon for communication to falter across the ocean. Still, it was as if Jon could feel him drawing closer with every passing day. Thoughts of Euron invaded his brain, if not Euron himself, and Jon hated that every bit as much.

“I’ll kill him,” he tells Tormund.

“Eh, little crow? You don’t say. Not a good death, I hope. That fucker deserves to die shitting himself and crying for his mammy.”

“I won’t be putting an arrow of mercy through his heart, if that’s what you’re referring to,” Jon says.

Before dinner, he had almost lost himself with Dany. When she had taken him by his neck and ridden him, for a moment everything had flashed black. He had hidden it from her, fighting to maintain his composure, because he hated what Euron had done to him. He loved how dominant his wife could be, how shameless, as she’d said, and he wanted her to feel free to unleash herself with him. He wouldn’t let Euron rob her of her pleasure, the way he had altered Jon’s forever. But it had been a struggle not to lash out. Jon had fought for every moment. The idea that he might always be this way filled him with a rage he knew he could not contain.

“If your small deadly sister even lets him return alive,” Tormund says.

“I ordered her to,” Jon says, too harshly.

But Tormund hardly notices, and laughs at that outright. “Your sisters have the north in them too, crow. Don’t you, girl?” he asks Sansa. “Northern women don’t obey kings just because they wear crowns. They do as they see fit.”

Sansa is not displeased by this assessment. “You're right about that, I’d say,” she smiles. “But Arya will do as Jon asked. This time, at least.”

“The king chose wisely in sending Lady Arya on this most important mission,” Tyrion says, leaning forward to speak over Missandei and Daenerys, who apparently are not including him in their whispered conversation. “The sisters Stark are not a force to be trifled with. They are quite like their mother in that way.”

“My mother taught me well,” says Sansa.“I think I would have died if she hadn’t given me her strength.” 

Jon doesn’t meet Sansa’s eye. He doesn’t think of Cat often, but Sansa is like her, he must admit. Instead he allows his gaze to linger a moment on his wife, wondering what she and Missandei are speaking so conspiratorially about. He’s not under any illusions as to who Dany would have gone to in order to come by what he had asked her for. He can’t help it, his groin pulses to life at the thought of it all. Jon shifts in his seat, trying not to think of what is waiting for him back in their chambers. 

Jaime Lannister approaches, stopping before Jon and Dany to give a bow. When Jon saw him, he still sometimes had the thought he’d had upon meeting the man, when Jon was just a boy: Jaime was what a king should look like. 

“Your Grace,” Jaime says. “Your Grace.”

“Ser Jaime,” Daenerys acknowledges him. 

“Your king and I were just discussing whether or not the queen ought to cut off Euron Greyjoy’s cock,” Tormund says. 

Jon’s jaw clenches. “Tormund,” he says. Tormund only laughs.

“The queen is charmed to hear that, I’m sure,” Jaime says smoothly. “I find that one's thirst for such things does tend to wane, with age,” he says, looking carefully at Jon. Jon bristles at this. 

“I find I am finished with having this matter discussed at the dinner table,” Dany says.

“Of course, your grace,” Ser Jaime nods. 

Jon is irked. “I’d like to hear what Ser Jaime has to say,” he insists.

Ser Jaime looks to Daenerys. Jon keeps his gaze on the man. “Then by all means, Ser Jaime,” Daenerys says. “Please enlighten us.”

“Forgive me, my king,” Ser Jaime says. “I believe I have offended. I only meant to suggest that as I myself grew older, my ability to stomach unnecessary violence seemed to decline. The strength of your youth is still on you in full, of course. But if you were to feel that you had little to gain from some sort of brutal execution of any enemy,” he says pointedly, with an awareness of the fact that they are in a public setting, an awareness that Tormund lacks, “no one could blame you.”

_ Just because I’m not as blood thirsty as Arya doesn’t mean I don’t want the man dead _ , thinks Jon. He wonders what Sansa has told Jaime and Brienne. Dany’s hand gives his thigh a gentle squeeze, and Jon doesn’t know if she means to offer support, or to quiet him.

“Perhaps you ought to get to the point, Ser Jaime,” Sansa says.

The smile Jaime gives her in return is familiar, and Jon sees that there is a closeness between the two of them that he hasn’t been privy to. Brienne is coming up beside her husband now, eyeing Tormund warily before bowing to Daenerys. “Right as always, Lady Sansa,” Jaime says. “My queen, my king, I wanted to personally tell you the news. It is my pleasure to announce to you that Ser Brienne is with child.”

“Oh,” Daenerys says, and Jon can hear the surprise in her voice. Her hand leaves his thigh and he misses it immediately. “What wonderful news. My best wishes to you both.” She turns to Tyrion. “Did you know of this news, Lord Hand?”

“I did not,” Tyrion says, and the gladness on his face is apparent, the expected arrival of a child breathing a new life into their family, Jon sees. A joy he continues to fail to give to Daenerys. 

“Well. A toast then,” Dany says, raising her glass. “A birth is always to be celebrated. Especially after such a long period of war.” She manages to sound happy, to keep the resultant jealousy and sorrow Jon knows she must be feeling from her voice.

“Thank you, your grace,” says Ser Brienne. Jon raises his cup with Dany and drinks.

“And a toast to our Lord Hand,” Dany says. “On a niece or nephew soon to be.”

“Does this mean you’ll all be headed back north soon?” Tormund says. “I shouldn’t think most women would want to whelp a child in this city.”

Daenerys frowns at this remark. Sansa speaks up. “Indeed it does. As soon as Arya returns, and matters are settled,” she says with an eyebrow raised at Jon, “we intend to head out. Will you be accompanying us, Tormund?” This is the first Jon has heard of this plan, and although he knows he should have expected it, it takes him by surprise. He has grown used to having his sisters nearby.

“I’m sure the Giantsbane has his own plans,” Jaime begins, giving Sansa a look.

“Oh aye, might as well travel together,” Tormund answers. “It’s getting a bit hot for me here.”

“I hope it’s a girl,” says Sansa.

“Boy or girl,” says Tyrion. “It shall be the first child born to two knights in all of Westerosi history. A momentous occasion.”

“Yes. Such wonderful news,” Daenerys says, too brightly, and it pains Jon to hear the false happiness in her voice. It seems uncharacteristic of her, to put on such pretense. This feigned joy prickles at him, and Jon feels anger rise from his belly to his chest. It’s the same feeling he had when Ser Alliser would mock Sam, when he learned what they’d done to Sansa. A dangerous feeling, a wolf crouching in front of something he wanted to protect, muscles coiled to pounce.

“How nice it will be to have a child you can acknowledge as your own, Ser Jaime,” Jon says, lifting his mug to his lips. As he sips, he watches his words take effect. Tyrion blinks rapidly, for once stunned into speechlessness. Brienne remains stoic. Ser Jaime gives Jon a blazing sort of look, and gently bows.

“Indeed, your grace,” he says.

But it’s only Dany’s reaction he cares about. Jon glances at her and sees she is looking at him with her eyes wide, astonished at his brazen remark, but also, he thinks, a little bit pleased.

“My apologies, Ser Brienne. Ser Jaime. We wish you happy tidings. All of us,” Sansa says.

“Our deepest congratulations to you both,” says Daenerys. 

“Thank you, your grace,” Brienne says formally. “We have taken up too much of your time. Please excuse us.” She and Jaime take their bows, and leave.

“Don’t apologize for me,” Jon says to Sansa when the two of them are gone. “I’ll speak as I wish.”

Sansa’s head whips to him. “Why are you being such an ass? Brienne is my friend.” 

“Don’t you think I have my reasons for the things I do and the choices I make? Reasons that have often considered you, have spared you from certain fates.” The volume of his voice creeps up as he speaks. Jon fights to keep it under control, to not make a scene.

But Sansa glances at his mug of ale. “I think you’ve had too much to drink, Jon.”

“And I think you’ve had too much to say, Sansa,” Jon replies. “Don’t ever mention how much I drink again. Or any of my other habits. It’s not for you to comment on.”

“Is that a command?” Sansa says angrily, setting down her fork and knife and turning to him, as if preparing for a fight.

“Do I need to make it one?” Jon says, his voice a tightly controlled growl.

Sansa’s mouth sets in a grim line. “Excuse me your grace,” she bites. “Your grace. I’m feeling unwell and shall retire. With your  _ permission _ of course.”

“Of course,” says Daenerys.

“Of course,” echoes Jon, his eyes locked on Sansa’s. She’s furious, that is clear, but she takes her leave without any further remarks. Jon turns back to his plate and tries to bank his anger, his fingers still curled around the handle of his mug.

“You southerners,” Tormund says. “Ought to just go to the ground and wrestle it out, makes everything easier. Speaking of, said I’d throw an axe with two of your horse lords. Might have put a few coin on the line. Ha!” He stands and slaps Jon on the back, taking his horn of mare’s milk with him. 

When he has gone, Dany’s hand comes to rest again upon Jon’s thigh, her fingers curling into him just slightly. He has the urge to kiss her boldly, here, but he’s not certain if she’d welcome it, right now. After what he’s just done. Beside her, Tyrion turns to Missandei and strikes up a conversation, giving the two of them the illusion of a moment of privacy.

Dany keeps her gaze forward when she speaks. “Those were strong words you had for Ser Jaime.”

Jon draws a deep breath, prepared to reconcile this, if he must. “Are you angry with me?”

“Not particularly,” she says. Then she turns to him, and he sees her eyes are hot, as if with flame. She leans in close to his ear, and speaks low. “I am quite looking forward to being alone with you later.”

Her words send a pulse of desire lighting through Jon’s groin, his member, his thighs. Dany draws back but keeps her hand on his leg, squeezing him possessively. Coils of desire unfurl from his body and reach out for her, a terrible longing. It hasn’t left him, this consuming need. He takes a drink of his ale, wishing he could find a way to speak freely to her. Find a way to tell her that what he wants is to be scourged. He wants pain to drive this ache out of him, open up a space inside him, make him free. 

“With your leave, your grace, I should like to prepare,” he says. He sees her own longing light in her as she turns to him again. She nods and, with a final squeeze, releases his thigh.

Jon stands and drains his mug. When it is empty, he sets it down on the table and then leans down, his lips close to her ear.

“When you come,” he growls. “Be a dragon.”

  
  
  


Fire sits low in Jon’s belly as he makes his way to their bedchambers. A desire to fight, a desire to fuck, to be fucked. All of it searing through him, driving him to the edge of what he can bear. “Should I have an evening tisane sent up, your grace?” Ser Willem asks when they reach the door to their chambers and Jon pauses to collect himself.

“No, thank you, Ser Willem,” he says. “I’ll just be resting. Please see that I’m not disturbed by anyone other than the queen.”

“Shall Adam come to help you change?”

Jon sighs, remembering his formal attire. “Aye, I suppose he’d better.”

“Very good, your grace,” the knight says, closing the door.

When Jon is alone he turns and surveys the room. His eyes fall on a small trunk next to Dany’s wardrobe, and somehow, he knows. Jon goes to the trunk and lifts the lid, and there at the very top, resting above her silk night gowns and dressing robes, is the object he has asked her to find. It’s like many he’s seen before, black and mostly smooth, with three rings of etching that provide layers of extra sensation. Anticipation grips in his chest, in his belly.

A small knock on the door. Jon bids him enter and Adam comes in, balancing a tray with a pot and a cup for tea. “Beg pardon, your grace,” the boy says. “I know you said you didn’t want a tisane, but Mrs. Moore down in the kitchens said the king must have his drink before bed, and I--”

“Very kind of you, Adam, thank you,” Jon says, sinking into a chair by the table. “Don’t worry about pouring it though, just help me with this.”

As soon as Adam has him out of his gorget and coat of plate, and then his brigandine, Jon sends him on his way. Alone, he slides off the remainder of his clothes and puts on his red silk robe, leaving nothing beneath it. Remembering Dany’s orders from last night, he retrieves his belt from his trunk where Adam has put it away. Doubling it in two, Jon places it on the center of the bed, where it lies waiting like a promise. Then he goes to the trunk where the device rests. His groin tugs just at the sight of it. Jon reaches past it and pulls one of the sashes from Dany’s robes. He folds it in half, and then puts it in his mouth, tying it behind the back of his head. Gagging himself.

That achieved, Jon waits for Daenerys on his knees.

Some time later, the door opens. He has placed himself by the hearth, facing toward the door and now he looks up, his heart pounding, knowing he has taken a risk, that Missandei might enter first, not Dany, and see him.Luckily, it is Dany who appears. Her eyes go straight to him, where he kneels, gagged, and she steps through quickly, murmuring something over her shoulder and then immediately shutting the door behind her.

Jon meets her gaze, letting her see him. It is a bold question, the way he has arranged himself, and he tells himself he will accept her answer, whatever it is. Dany steps into the room, looking down at him with an unreadable expression on her face, and Jon’s will falters. He’s gone too far, he thinks. Shameless. He reaches up to rip the gag from his mouth.

“I didn’t say you could remove that,” Daenerys says, her demeanor cool. Utterly in control. 

Slowly, Jon lowers his hand, threading it behind his back again. He waits.

Dany moves to the center of the room, her chin lifted high, gazing down at him from a great height. “When you spoke those words to Ser Jaime,” she says. “I wanted to take you right there.”

Jon watches her silently, his eyes burning, his member hard, disturbing the fabric of his robe.

“Would you have let me?”she asks. “I am still a Khaleesi, after all. Such things are not unknown, among the Dothraki.”

He knows she never would, of course, but his cock surges at the suggestion, so hard now that it nearly aches. Here, alone in a room with his wife, whom he trusts, Jon nods.

“Good,” she says. Her gaze runs down his body. “Take off your robe.”

His eyes fixed on hers, Jon pulls the sash at his waist and the bow comes undone. Then he rolls his shoulders back, smoothly, purposefully, and this action sends the robe gliding to the floor, the silk smoothing down his back and buttocks, landing silently like snow. Dany’s lips part, he can see the desire sliding through her.

“I’m going to take care of you now, Jon,” she says, and Jon winces because it is such a relief to hear. She glances down at his cock. “You won’t come without my permission, do you understand?”

Jon nods.

“Good." Dany reaches down and pulls the gag from his mouth. "Jon. Is this truly what you want?"

"Yes, Dany," he says, his voice ragged, raw.

"All right." She situates the sash back into his mouth. "Is that too tight?"

He shakes his head. Dany straightens. “Rise and get me out of this dress.”

Jon obeys her immediately. He has performed this act so many times in the past--disrobing someone, being disrobed, his gut tightening in anticipation of what is to come. And now he craves it from Dany, his body practically crying out to her. Yet he is afraid that she won’t understand how severe he wants her to be. He doesn’t think his wife has ever set foot in a brothel, she doesn’t know how this sort of thing is done. He quickly gets her down to her chemise, and Jon grabs it roughly and rips it, so that it begins to tear open from the seams at her chest, the ribbons pulling loose. Her eyes widen and Dany puts her fingers in his hair and forces him back down to the ground.

“Did you bring what I told you to bring?” she says.

Jon nods and casts his eyes at the bed. She follows his gaze, then crosses to the bed and takes up the belt. Jon knows he will submit, if she beats him--that’s what he’s been begging her for, for fucks sake--but she raises an eyebrow at him and lets the belt fall to the floor at her feet, a sort of warning, he supposes. It’s clear she’s never done it to anyone before. People who had knew how to enjoy it, how to draw it out. They’d try to make him nervous. They’d never managed to. The pain had been safer.

Dany she slips out of the chemise on her own. It is all Jon can do not to cry out to her as he watches her go to the trunk. He is seething and shaking already, with rage boiling up in him from some dark, buried source, with this terrible blinding  _ want. _ She pulls the cock from the trunk, and then in her other hand takes up the harness. She returns to him, and with hands behind his back, cheeks burning, Jon watches her do what he has asked her to--watches her step into the fine leather harness that she fastens around her belly, somewhat like saddling a horse, woven tightly enough so that the black cock, when she attaches it, springs forward. She stands before him, regal in her bearing, her head high and shoulders back, hair falling in waves over her breasts, obscuring her nipples from view, the plain of her belly, and then this thing that Jon has asked her to get, and desire rips through his body, makes his belly quiver. She steps toward him and the moment she is close enough Jon tugs his gag down, ducks his head forward and takes the cock into his mouth.

He hears her gasp of surprise, but she doesn’t tell him to stop. He flickers his eyes up at her, looking at her from beneath his lashes, hollowing his cheeks as he begins to move his head up and down the length of the cock--her cock. He sees the languorous sheen of desire in her eyes, sees that she likes this. Jon relaxes his throat and takes the fullness of it into his mouth and down. Dany threads her fingers through his hair and gives his head a little tug and Jon bobs his head up and down, fellating her. He moves his hands up to her backside and presses her toward him, but Dany wrenches his head back painfully.

“Touch yourself,” she says.

Jon’s brow furrows with the exquisite humiliation of it. He lowers his hand and takes up his own cock, beginning to stroke it as he continues to suck Dany. Jon shuts his eyes, trying to take it all in--her desire, his desire, how brazen and beautifully debauched he feels. He’s so overloaded, already so aroused, that it isn’t long before he lets out a little whine, feeling a drip of early spend, and pulls off of her to say, “I’m too close, Dany, please . . . “

“Stop,” she says, and Jon releases himself. He wishes she would strike him, force him to the ground, but he knows she won’t. Because he hasn’t shown her yet, how to do this, no one has. And he can’t bring himself to voice it. So he allows himself to move, then, without thinking about it. Reaches up and grabs her by the hips and pulls her to the floor. She tumbles to her back and Jon crouches over her, his palms braced on either side of her head. Gods, what is he doing? He can’t fight his wife as if she were an enemy--as if she were _ him _ \--and then Dany snarls,

“How dare you?”

The gag is still around his neck. Dany grabs it and pulls, twisting it so that it tightens, and Jon lets her. In this way she forces him down to his belly. She presses a palm into his lower back, holding him to the ground and then he feels her on top of him, mounting him. He jerks his hips up, slamming into her, but she presses down harder on his lower back. Still, he starts to push up off the ground, and then he feels a sharp crack light up along his back and realizes she has whipped him with the belt.

“Stay down,” she says. But Jon craves more. He pushes up again, lurching. Dany whips him a second time, hard, pain blazing along the length of him. He puts his right arm behind his back and Dany grabs it and presses down, at such an angle that it hurts a little. 

“Do it, fucking do it, Dany,” he growls, and then he feels her forcing his legs apart with her knee and he spreads for her, fighting it and begging for it at once, a dance his body seems to know, one he doesn’t understand. He writhes beneath her and then there is the cold press of the cock between his cheeks. Dany pushes in, just a little, too carefully.

“Do it!” he urges.

She drives into him, splitting him open, she does it quickly and forcefully and it hurts and he feels that violation again in his body, feels men driving into him, feels Greyjoy driving into him. “Dany,” he says, and lets out a groan, trying not to roar, as Dany seats herself in him so deeply he thinks she must be to her hilt. 

“Pull my head back,” he says, and Dany does. Grips his hair and wrenches his head back, so that Jon’s throat is exposed. Panting, he bucks again, and Dany rides him out. Of course she can, he thinks, Jon is nothing compared to the power of a dragon beneath her. She maintains her balance, swaying, and because she manages to hold on he is embolded to buck up into her again, driving the cock into himself, crying out as he does it, again, and again, fucking up into her. He’s humiliated by the movements of his body, the sheer will of his own hips, and yet he can’t seem to stop, doesn’t want to. Dany is quiet behind him as he rides himself on her cock, until at last it he growls, 

“Fuck me.”

So she does. Still pressing his arm at an angle, Dany releases her grip on his hair and braces herself on his back, and then she rides him. After a few thrusts Jon settles, goes still, moaning into the stones beneath him as she drives into him, pumping rhythmically. Jon’s entire body quivers as he surrenders to it, his forehead pressed into his free arm. Tears well up inside him, gathering like a storm in his chest but he can’t bear the thought of letting them out, so he lets out another roar instead.

“Should I stop?” she asks.

“Fucking gods Dany no, fuck me you bastard, you fucking bastard,” he cries. She thrusts into him harder then, riding him brutally, and he cries out, his body rocking with the force of her, each thrust seeming to tear his insides open, breeching him like a battering ram beating at a wall, pounding relentlessly until something gives. Something inside of Jon releases, and he feels himself spewing his seed onto the stones. It happens without him even realizing he was close, his whole body spasming.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Dany says, 

“It’s all right Jon, I love you, its all right,” still fucking into him, but more slowly now. Then the pain and the relief of his release overwhelm him. Everything goes white, and quiet. Jon’s body stops fighting, and he doesn’t know anything, for a little while. Becomes all sensation and no thought. He is somewhere else, floating, his body like the grass in the summer at Winterfell, free and warm and swaying in the sun.

  
  
And then Dany is crying and he is turning over, shifting them away from where he has spilled, his hands on her hips, her flank, her arse, gliding over all of her body, reassuring himself she is here. Dany falls on him, tears dripping onto his skin, and she begins to kiss him wildly all over his face. His forehead, his eyes, his lips, his chin, his cheeks. “Jon,” she says. “Jon.” He is still half way gone, half of him residing in that other place with the light, and he says,

“Dany, it’s all right, I love you so much. I’m fine,” and she is kissing tears off his face. He doesn’t know if they are his or hers, and it doesn’t matter. He pulls her down onto him, wanting to feel all of her. The onyx cock she’s wearing presses into his belly and thighs and it feels so good, so exquisitely good he almost can’t believe it. All of his muscles feel flooded with warmth, with comfort, and he holds her to him hard and close, wraps his legs up around her arse, squeezing her with every part of him.

“It was so good,” he says, and she lifts her head off his chest to look into his eyes, tears shimmering in hers, shining like pale jewels.

“You’re all right?”

He thumbs her tears off her cheeks, swelling with the desire to please her. “Yes, love. I’ll do anything you want, anything.”

She is still stunned, he can see. “I hurt you,” she says.

Jon cups her face and says, “I wanted you to,” his voice low, hoping she will understand, because he can’t explain it any more than he already has, and he doesn’t want to disturb the peace of this moment. Dany nods, and begins kissing him again, tracing the line of his breastbone. She kisses and kisses him, until Jon has gathered enough strength, has begun to seep back into himself, a feeling of light in the dark places in his body. When he is ready, he says “Dany,” and using all his strength is able to smoothly slide himself from beneath her and then cradles her bum as he stands, drawing her up with him. She wraps her legs around his waist and he holds her beneath her seat. They both look down at the black cock jutting up between them. A shadow of concern passes over her face but Jon only smiles and carries her to the bed. He sits her on the edge of it and then he kneels before her, raising his hands to the buckles on the harness.

“May I?” he says.

“Yes,” Dany says, and Jon quickly unfastens the whole affair and pulls it off of her. The harness has left marks on her skin, and he runs his palm over them, rubbing out the ache. He moves his hands up her legs, cupping her calves and then traveling up to her thighs, gently urging them open, anxious now to lose himself there, in this part of her.

“Are you warm enough?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. Jon pauses and looks more closely at her. She is still teary, her hair wild about her face, her expression stunned and uncertain. 

“Do you want me to just hold you for a moment?” he says. Dany doesn’t even speak. Looking relieved, she only nods. Jon stands and reaches down for her and she practically jumps into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, clinging to him. He is aware that what they just did together, while heady and freeing for him, was likely emotional and possibly shocking for her. Jon cups the back of her head, smoothing her hair, and sits on the edge of the bed. Even though she has said she was warm, he pulls a fur up and wraps it around her, and then he holds her there on his lap. Jon finds himself rocking her gently from side to side. She is damp between her legs, he can feel it, wet heat near his thighs, his groin. He holds her tightly until her breathing begins to even out. Finally she pulls her head back and looks into his eyes, studying his face.

“You’re all right?” she says.

“It was so good, Dany,” he says, cupping one of her breasts. “I promise.”

“All right,” she says, nodding. 

Jon raises his eyebrows at her, an invitation, his fingers gently teasing at her nipple. “May I make you come now?”

“Yes,” she says at once. “Yes, I think you’d better.”

He stands, lifting her again, and lays her back down on the bed. He wants to kneel before her as he makes her come, as if she were a weirwood tree. He shifts her hips to the very edge of the bed and then settles onto his knees, shrugging himself beneath her so that her legs fall down his back, draping over him. Then he nudges her thighs open, widening her for him.

“Did I frighten you?” he asks.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Jon Snow,” she says. “I’m not so easily scared.”

Jon smiles at this, reassured. He puts his thumbs to her petals, she is wet and glistening for him. “Dany,” he sighs, and delves his tongue into the flower, lapping up the wet. He can’t help it. Then he pulls back and tries to take his time, kissing up and down each of her thighs, burying his face into the joint where leg meets groin, wanting to draw the pleasure out for her, to make it as beautiful for her as it was for him. He licks at her again, snaking his tongue inside of her. Dany grabs one of his hands and guides it to her breast, and Jon grazes his thumb over her nipple, feeling it harden. Dany lets out a sigh, sounding contended and relaxed.

He takes his time, paying attention to her clit and then backing off of it, devoting his attentions elsewhere, gradually building waves inside her body of increasing strength. He delays bringing her over, working her until she is glistening with sweat, her whole body flushed, until just the slightest touch to the stone center of her sends her quivering violently. “Jon,” she whines, after it has gone on for some time, her body convulsing. “Please, Jon, gods,” she grips the furs in her fist, her head tossing, half out of her mind with need.

Jon suckles her nub all the way into his mouth and pulsates it with his tongue. A moan thrums in her throat, weak at first, but it grows. She thrusts her hips up into him, her peak coming over her at last, screaming out with it rhythmically, her heels driving into his back, her bum lifting off the bed. With a final long cry her body gives and her weight collapses back onto the bed, panting. He waits, giving her time to recover. Tears trickle down her face as she catches her breath. “Gods, Jon,” she says again, and reaches for him, wanting to pull him up along side her, but Jon shakes his head. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” he says. He intends to make her come again and again, until she begs him to stop. He is overwhelmed with gratitude. He also doesn’t want to talk about what happened tonight, he can’t, and so he intends to keep her dizzy with pleasure until at last they collapse into bed, utterly spent, too tired to speak.

“Again?” Dany says.

“Again,” Jon confirms.

“All right,” she says. “Can I sit on you this time?”

“You can do anything you want, Dany,” he says. Then he slides up the length of her, grabbing her waist, and with a roll he has her on top of him. He urges her up, toward his face, but before she’s all the way there, she pauses.

“Jon,” she says. He gazes up at her from between her thighs, waiting. Her eyes are wide with wonder. “You’re like a miracle, to me,” she says softly.

The words crack something open in his chest, although he would have sworn he could not possibly be split open a single inch more. That she should call him a miracle, when she was the one who had rained fire from the sky to slay the dead; who had managed to take the ruins of Jon himself and forged him into something new.“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Dany,” he says. “I’m yours. Every part.”

She nods and grazes her fingertips down his forehead, over his eyes, touching the tip of his nose. He slaps her rump lightly. “Come here, love,” he says, and she scoots forward, until her cunt is right over his mouth, pinkish and brown and scented of the sea. His wife lets out a ragged sigh, and Jon gives himself over to her, sailing away on her ocean, carried by her waves.


End file.
